about eight years old.

It was in the depot of one of the larger towns in western New York. The
day had been hot and after the long ride on the crowded day coach the
cool shadow under the curved roof of the immense iron vaulted depot
seemed very pleasant. The porter, the brakeman and Vandover's father
very carefully lifted his mother from the car. She was lying back on
pillows in a long steamer chair. The three men let the chair slowly
down, the brakeman went away, but the porter remained, taking off his
cap and wiping his forehead with the back of his left hand, which in
turn he wiped against the pink palm of his right. The other train, the
train to which they were to change, had not yet arrived. It was rather
still; at the far end of the depot a locomotive, sitting back on its
motionless drivers like some huge sphinx crouching along the rails, was
steaming quietly, drawing long breaths. The repair gang in greasy caps
and spotted blue overalls were inspecting the train, pottering about the
trucks, opening and closing the journal-boxes, striking clear notes on
the wheels with long-handled hammers.

Vandover stood close to his father, his thin legs wide apart, holding in
both his hands the satchel he had been permitted to carry. He looked
about him continually, rolling his big eyes vaguely, watching now the
repair-gang, now a huge white cat dozing on an empty baggage truck.

Several passengers were walking up and down the platform, staring
curiously at the invalid lying back in the steamer chair.

The journey was too much for her. She was very weak and very pale, her
eyelids were heavy, the skin of her forehead looked blue and tightly
drawn, and tiny beads of perspiration gathered around the corners of her