my things together. I was feeling terribly nerve-fagged and ill but I took Smut away, and got away that night, feeling that I was accompanied to the station by Patrick, almost felt as if he were carrying my things for me.
I hoped to lose myself when I once got away into the country. I felt as if Sybil were somehow trying to build a wall between me and my enemies and, by so doing, feeling all the brunt of it herself, for I heard the same distressed protests from her as I had many times used myself to the indecent language and threats behind.
It was a joy to find myself in my brother's home, with its pretty brown dining-room and yellow chrysanthemums in the vases, a bright fire in the fire-place, and the comfort of my sister-in-law’s warm personality. And when the children came home from school and tumbled all over me with affectionate welcome, I forgot all about the voices.
Their first glance at me was anxious. They, too, had heard of the "voices" and had put the same construction on them as my sisters. But I kept my voice even and my conversation sensible, determined to live down the awful impression.
But that afternoon as I left the house and walked along the queer little country street on the way to the post-office, I saw two men in new-looking clothes, standing at a window near at hand, looking in as if interested.
The town was such a small one that at that hour they were the only people in sight. Something about them made me shiver. They appeared not to see me as I passed and I walked past them determined to appear unconscious.
But something in me said, "detectives" and as I walked on I knew they were following.
As my family always called me "imaginative" I determined to try to think of them as ordinary strangers spending the day in town. But while I stood at the post-office counter writing a letter-card to Jessie, I was conscious of one writing a telegram at my shoulder, while the other stood outside.
I would have thought nothing of that but when I had finished my letter-card and closed it he was ready to go and as I took up another to write to someone else he said:
"Oh, I must write this again," to the clerk, and stayed till I had finished.
With my heart beating fast I tried to look unconscious and walked home the other side of the street, taking interest in the shop windows.
The two men walked on the other side of the road and by degrees I found shelter again in my brother's house.
I said nothing to him. How could I? No one believed anything.
Perhaps they lost me—the voices—I hoped so but again, next day, they came, commenting on all I did, gently this
