"Walton," answered the girl obediently. He nodded his head and murmured
the name half aloud to his memory.

"Evelyn Walton. And you live in God's country?"

"In New York." Her breath came fast and one hand crept to her breast
where the flowers drooped.

"I'll remember," he said, "and some day--soon--I'll come for you. I love
you, girl. Don't forget."

There was a quick, impatient blast from the engine. The wheels creaked
against the rails. The train moved forward.

"Good night," he said. His hand reached over the railing and one of hers
fell into it. For a moment it lay hidden there, warm and tremulous. Then
his fingers released it and it fled to join its fellow at her breast.

"Good night--dear," he said again. "Remember!"

Then he dropped from the step. There was a long piercing wail of the
whistle that was smothered as the engine entered the snow-shed. The girl
on the platform stood motionless a moment. Then one of her hands dropped
from her breast, and with it came a faded spray of purple lilac. She
stepped quickly to the rail and tossed it back into the twilight. Wade
sprang forward, snatched it from the track and pressed it to his lips.
When the last car dipped into the mouth of the snow-shed he was still
standing there, gazing after, his hat in hand, a straight, lithe figure
against the starlit sky.