"Probably," said Mercy, in a grave tone, suddenly recollecting that she
ought not to talk with this man as if he were one of her own village
people. The conductor, sensitive as are most New England people, spite of
their apparent familiarity of address, to the least rebuff, felt the
change in Mercy's tone, and walked away, thinking half surlily, "She
needn't put on airs. A schoolma'am, I reckon. Wonder if it can be her
that's going to teach the Academy?"

When they reached the station, it was, as the conductor had said, very
dark; and it was raining hard. For the first time, a sense of her
unprotected loneliness fell upon Mercy's heart. Her mother, but
half-awake, clung nervously to her, asking purposeless and incoherent
questions. The conductor, still surly from his fancied rebuff at Mercy's
hands, walked away, and took no notice of them. The station-master was
nowhere to be seen. The two women stood huddling together under one
umbrella, gazing blankly about them.

"Is this Mrs. Philbrick?" came in clear, firm tones, out of the darkness
behind them; and, in a second more, Mercy had turned and looked up into
Stephen White's face.

"Oh, how good you were to come and meet us!" exclaimed Mercy. "You are Mr.
Allen's friend, I suppose."

"Yes," said Stephen, curtly. "But I did not come to meet you. You must not
thank me. I had business here. However, I made the one carriage which the
town boasts, wait, in case you should be here. Here it is!" And, before
Mercy had time to analyze or even to realize the vague sense of
disappointment she felt at his words, she found herself and her mother