one know that I was coming, so I couldn't expect any one to meet me at
the station at Glendale. There was nobody there I belonged to--just an
empty house. I suppose a man coming home like that would have whistled
and held up his head, but I couldn't. I'm a woman.

Suddenly, that long glowworm of a train stopped just long enough at
Glendale to eject me and my five trunks, with such hurried emphasis that
I felt I was being planted in the valley forever, and I would have to
root myself here or die. I still feel that way.

And as I stood just where my feet were planted, in the dust of the road,
instead of on the little ten-foot platform, that didn't quite reach to
my sleeper steps, I felt as small as I really am in comparison to the
universe. I looked after the train and groveled.

Then, just as I was about to start running down the track, away from
nowhere and to nowhere, I was brought to my senses by a loud boohoo, and
then a snubby choke, which seemed to come out of my bag and
steamer-blanket that stood in a pile before me.

"Train's gone, train's gone and left us! I knew it would, when Sallie
stopped to put the starch on her face all over again. And Cousin James,
he's as slow as molasses, and I couldn't dress two twins in not time to
button one baby. Oh, damn, oh, damn!" And the sobs rose to a perfect
storm of a wail.

Just at that moment, down the short platform an electric light, that was
so feeble that it seemed to show a pine-knot influence in its heredity,
was turned on by the station-agent, who was so slow that I perceived the
influence of a descent from old Mr. Territt, who drove the stage that