"No," whispers Crene; "as long as you have your check, you as
good as have your trunk; but when you give that up, you have
nothing. Keep that till you see your trunk."

My clutch re-tightens.

"At any rate, you can wait till the next train, and see if
it doesn't come back. You'll get to your journey's end just
as soon."

"Shall I? Well, I will," compliant as usual.

"No," interposes my good genius again. "Men are always saying
that a woman never goes when she engages to go. She is always
a train later or a train earlier, and you can't meet her."

Pliant to the last touch, I say aloud,--

"No, I must go in this train"; and so I go, trunkless and
crestfallen, to meet Halicarnassus.

It is a dismal day, and Crene, to comfort me, puts into my
hands two books as companions by the way. They are Coventry
Patmore's "Angel in the House," "The Espousals and the
Betrothal." I do not approve of reading in the cars; but
without is a dense, white, unvarying fog, and within my heart
it is not clear sunshine. So I turn to my books.

Did any one ever read them before? Somebody wrote a vile