Missy couldn't make such quick progress; the vacant lot had been a
cornfield, and the stubby ground was frozen into hard, sharp ridges
under the snow. She stumbled, felt her shoes filling with snow,
stumbled on, fell down, felt her stocking tear viciously. She
glanced over her shoulder--had the tall figure back there on the
sidewalk slowed down, too, or was it only imagination? She scrambled
to her feet and hurried on--and HE seemed to be hurrying again. She
had no time, now, to be afraid of the vague terrors of night; her
panic was perfectly and terribly tangible. She MUST get home ahead
of father.
Blindly she stumbled on.
At the kitchen door she paused a moment to regain her breath; then,
very quietly, she entered. There was a light in the kitchen and she
could hear mother doing something in the pantry. She sniffed at the
air and called cheerily:
"Been popping corn?"
"Yes," came mother's voice, rather stiffly. "Seems to me you've been
a long time finding out about those lessons!"
Not offering to debate that question, nor waiting to appease her
sudden craving for pop-corn, Missy moved toward the door.
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