exercise the utmost consideration for those around him; but his long
remark was of the piercing quality that often appertains to whispers,
and, as he turned his back, two of the children woke, and a young girl
in the seat in front of Sophia sat up, her grey eyes dilated with alarm.

"Sophia," she said, with a low sob, "oh, Sophia, is there something
_wrong_?"

"Be quiet!" said Sophia, tartly.

The snoring mother now shut her mouth with a snap. In a twinkling she
was up and lively.

"Has your father got on his overcoat, Sophia? Is there danger?" She
darted from one side of the carriage to another, rubbing the moisture
off each window with a bit of her shawl and speaking with rapidity.

Then she ran out of the car. Two of the children followed her. The
others, reassured by Sophia's stillness, huddled together at the
windows, shivering in the draught of cold air that came from the open
door.

After some minutes Sophia's father came in again, leading his wife and
children with an old-world gallantry that was apparent even in these
unsatisfactory circumstances. He had a slow impressive way of speaking
that made even his unimportant words appear important. In the present
case, as soon as he began to speak most of the people in the car came
near to hear.

Some obstruction, he said, had fallen across the line. It was not much;