up and down the platform and when Patsy looked up and nodded, a soft
flush suffused her features and she bowed her head in return.

At the cry of "all aboard!" a scramble was made for the coaches and
Beth and Patsy, re-entering their staterooms, found their Uncle and
the Major still intent upon their interminable game of cribbage.

"Let's go back and talk to the girl," suggested Patsy. "Somehow,
the poor thing seems lonely, and her smile was more pathetic than
cheerful."

So they made their way through the long train to the tourist coach,
and there found the girl they were seeking. The surrounding seats were
occupied by groups of passengers of rather coarse caliber, many being
foreign laborers accompanied by their wives and children. The air in
the car was close and "stuffy" and the passengers seemed none too neat
in their habits and appearance. So the solitary girl appeared like a
rose blooming in a barnyard and her two visitors were instantly sorry
for her. She sat in her corner, leaning wearily against the back of
the cane seat, with a blanket spread over her lap. Strangely
enough the consideration of her fellow passengers left the girl in
undisturbed possession of a double seat.

"Perhaps she is ill," thought Patsy, as she and Beth sat down opposite
and entered into conversation with the child. She was frankly
communicative and they soon learned that her name was Myrtle Dean, and
that she was an orphan. Although scarcely fifteen years of age she
had for more than two years gained a livelihood by working in a skirt
factory in Chicago, paying her board regularly to a cross old aunt who
was her only relative in the big city. Three months ago, however, she