placed in the carriage, and the door shut.

"Your trunks cannot go up until morning," he said, speaking through the
carriage window; "but, if you will give me your checks, I will see that
they are sent."

"We have only one small valise," said Mercy: "that was under our seat. The
brakeman said he would take it out for us; but he forgot it, and so did
I."

The train was already backing out of the station. Stephen smothered some
very unchivalrous words on his lips, as he ran out into the rain, overtook
the train, and swung himself on the last car, in search of the "one small
valise" belonging to his tenants. It was a very shabby valise: it had made
many a voyage with its first owner, Captain Carr. It was a very little
valise: it could not have held one gown of any of the modern fashions.

"Dear me," thought Stephen, as he put it into the carriage at Mercy's
feet, "what sort of women are these I've taken under my roof! I expect
they'll be very unpleasing sights to my eyes. I did hope she'd be
good-looking." How many times in after years did Stephen recall with
laughter his first impressions of Mercy Philbrick, and wonder how he could
have argued so unhesitatingly that a woman who travelled with only one
small valise could not be good-looking.

"Will you come to the house to-morrow?" he asked.

"Oh, no," replied Mercy, "not for three or four weeks yet. Our furniture
will not be here under that time."