as completely as though she had actually floated away into that pit of
darkness beyond the far end of the platform. He had drawn but one
conclusion. This place--Graham--was her home; undoubtedly friends had
been at the station to meet her; even now she might be telling them, or
a husband, or a grown-up son, of the strange fellow who had stared at
her in such a curious fashion. Disappointment in not finding her had
brought a reaction. He had an inward and uncomfortable feeling of having
been very silly, and of having allowed his imagination to get the better
of his common sense. He had persuaded himself to believe that she had
been in very great distress. He had acted honestly and with chivalric
intentions. And yet, after what had passed between him and Father Roland
in the smoking compartment--and in view of his failure to establish a
proof of his own convictions--he was determined to keep this particular
event of the night to himself.

A loud voice began to announce that the moment of departure had arrived,
and as the passengers began scrambling back into their coaches, Father
Roland led the way to the baggage car.

"They're going to let us ride with the dunnage so there won't be any
mistake or time lost when we get to Thoreau's," he said.

They climbed up into the warm and lighted car, and after the baggage-man
in charge had given them a sour nod of recognition the first thing that
David noticed was his own and Father Roland's property stacked up near
the door. His own belongings were a steamer trunk and two black morocco
bags, while Father Roland's share of the pile consisted mostly of boxes
and bulging gunny sacks that must have weighed close to half a ton. Near
the pile was a pair of scales, shoved back against the wall of the car.
David laughed queerly as he nodded toward them. They gave him a rather