She put a hand to the bandage. "It's sore. Otherwise I'm quite fit. I've
slept like the dead."

"I'm glad to hear it," he replied mechanically. He was drinking her in,
all the grace and loveliness and wonder of her, himself quite
unconscious of the intensity of his gaze.

She accepted the mute tribute untroubled; but there was a suggestion of
puzzlement in the frown which began to pucker her forehead.

"You're really the station-agent?" she asked with a slight emphasis upon
the adverb.

"Yes. Why not?"

"Nothing. No reason. Won't you tell me what happened?"

"Come inside." He held open the door against the wind.

"No. It's musty." She wrinkled a dainty nose. "Can't we talk here? I
love the feel of the air and the wet. And the world! I'm glad I wasn't
killed."

"So am I," he said soberly.

"When my brain wouldn't work quite right yesterday, I thought that some
one had hit me. That isn't so, is it?"

"No. Your train was wrecked. You were injured. In the confusion you must
have run away."