had barely time to divest himself of his powder-horn, and a few little
things that might be helpful to the girl in her journey, before the train
was halting at the station. Then he took from his pocket the money that
had been paid him for his horse; and, selecting a five-dollar bill for
himself, he wrapped the rest in an envelope bearing his own name and
address. The envelope was one addressed by the lady at home. It had
contained some gracefully worded refusal of a request. But he did not
notice now what envelope he gave her.

"Take this," he said. "It will help a little. Yes, you must! I cannot
leave you--I _will_ not--unless you do," when he saw that she hesitated
and looked doubtful. "I owe you all and more for saving my life. I can
never repay you. Take it. You may return it sometime when you get plenty
more of your own, if it hurts your pride to keep it. Take it, please. Yes,
I have plenty for myself. You will need it, and you must stop at nice
places overnight. You will be very careful, won't you? My name is on that
envelope. You must write to me and let me know that you are safe."

"Some one is calling you, and that thing is beginning to move again," said
the girl, an awesome wonder in her face. "You will be left behind! O,
hurry! Quick! Your mother!"

He half turned toward the train, and then came back.

"You haven't told me your name!" he gasped. "Tell me quick!"

She caught her breath.

"Elizabeth!" she answered, and waved him from her.