clear, I mean to start. See if I don't!"

The train stopped at the Pomantic station. The young man in the gray
clothes rose up, took something from under the car-seat and went
out. What he had with him was a carpenter's box. It was the same
youth who had greeted Ray Ingraham from beneath the elm branches. As
the train got slowly under way again, Marion looked straight out at
her window into Frank Sunderline's face, and bowed,--very modestly
and sweetly bowed. He was waiting for that instant on the platform,
until the track should be clear and he could cross.

What he caught in Marion's look, as she turned it full upon him,
nobody could see; but there was a quieter earnest in it, certainly,
when she turned back; and the young man had responded to her
salutation with a relaxing glance of friendly pleasantness that
seemed more native to his face than the frown of a few minutes
before.

Marion Kent had several selves; several relations, at any rate, into
which she could put herself with others. I think she showed young
Sunderline, for that instant, out of gentler, questioning, almost
beseeching eyes, a something she could not show to the whole
car-full with whom at the moment of her entrance she had been in
rapport, through frills and puffs and flutters, into which she had
allowed her consciousness to pass. Behind the little window he could
only see a face; a face quieted down from its gay flippancy; a face
that showed itself purposely and simply to him; eyes that said,
"What was that you thought of me just now? _Don't_ think it!"

They were old neighbors and child-friends. They had grown up