she had held herself from the moment of departure to the instant
that brought the porter with the word that they were whistling for
B---. Without a word she arose and followed him to the vestibule,
where she watched him as he unfastened the outer door and lifted
the trap. A single word escaped her lips and he held out his hand
to receive the crumpled bill she clutched in her gloved fingers.
He did not look at it. He knew that it would amply reward him for
the brief exposure he endured on the lonely, wind-swept platform
of a station, the name of which he did not know.

She took several uncertain steps in the direction of the station
windows and stopped, as if bewildered. Already the engine was
pounding the air with quick, vicious snorts in the effort to get
under way; the vestibule trap and door closed with a bang; the
wheels were creaking. A bitter wind smote her in the face; the wet,
hurtling sleet crashed against the thin veil, blinding her.

The door of the waiting-room across the platform opened and a man
rushed toward her.

"Mrs. Wrandall?" he called above the roar of the wind.

She advanced quickly.

"Yes."

"What a night!" he said, as much to himself as to her. "I'm sorry
you would insist on coming to-night. To-morrow morning would have
satisfied the--"