his nights and days for so many months. He was about to speak when he
made up his mind not to disturb the other. So certain was he that Father
Roland was asleep that he drew away from the door on the tips of his
toes and reëntered the coach.

He did not stop in the first or second car, though there were plenty of
empty seats and people were rousing themselves into more cheerful
activity. He passed through one and then the other to the third coach,
and sat down when he came to the seat he had formerly occupied. He did
not immediately look at the woman across the aisle. He did not want her
to suspect that he had come back for that purpose. When his eyes did
seek her in a casual sort of way he was disappointed.

She was almost covered in her coat. He caught only the gleam of her
thick, dark hair, and the shape of one slim hand, white as paper in the
lampglow. He knew that she was not asleep, for he saw her shoulders
move, and the hand shifted its position to hold the coat closer about
her. The whistling of the approaching engine, which could be heard
distinctly now, had no apparent effect on her. For ten minutes he sat
staring at all he could see of her--the dark glow of her hair and the
one ghostly white hand. He moved, he shuffled his feet, he coughed; he
made sure she knew he was there, but she did not look up. He was sorry
that he had not brought Father Roland with him in the first place, for
he was certain that if the Little Missioner had seen the grief and the
despair in her eyes--the hope almost burned out--he would have gone to
her and said things which he had found it impossible to say when the
opportunity had come to him. He rose again from his seat as the powerful
snow-engine and its consort coupled on to the train. The shock almost
flung him off his feet. Even then she did not raise her head.