Chapter Five


Our train left Grand Central Station at two o'clock next afternoon;
it was bitter cold, I remember, and I drove to the station,
smothered in furs. But our car was wonderfully cozy and comfortable,
and it warmed my heart to see how proud Dad was of it: I must
inspect the kitchen; this was my stateroom, did I like it? I mustn't
judge Amos by his appearance, but the way he could cook--he was a
wonder at making griddle cakes. Did I still like griddle cakes? "And
do look at the books and magazines Mr. Porter brought. And a box of
chocolates, too. Wasn't it kind of him?" Dear Dad! He was like a
child with a new toy.

I'm sure he enjoyed every minute of the trip. Mr. Porter played
cribbage with him (Dad adores cribbage) by the hour; they talked
railroads, and politics, and mining--I don't think Dad had been so
happy in years. I know I had never been so happy, for I was sure Mr.
Porter loved me. I couldn't help being sure; his heart was in his
eyes every time he looked at me.

When we started from New York, we were Mr. Middleton, and Mr.
Porter, and Miss Middleton to one another; at Chicago, it was Tom,
and Blakely, and Miss Middleton; I became Elizabeth in Utah (I made
him call me that. And when we reached Nevada . . .

It happened so naturally, so sweetly. Dad was taking a nap after
luncheon, and Blakely and I were sitting on the rear platform of our