"Well, say, I'd like to lock up the place," grumbled the agent. "There's
no more trains to-night but Number Seventeen, and she don't even whistle
here. I can't set up here all night."

"Oh, you wouldn't lock me out in the night, would you?" she cried in such
pretty despair that he faltered.

"I got to git home to my wife. She's--"

"That's all right, agent," broke in Rossiter hastily. "I'll take your
place as agent. Leave the doors open and I'll go on watch. I have to stay
up anyway."

There was a long silence. He did not know whether she was freezing or
warming toward him, because he dared not look into her eyes.

"I don't know who you are," she said distinctly but plaintively. It was
very dark out there on the platform and the night air was growing cold.

"It is the misfortune of obscurity," he said mockingly. "I am a most
humble wayfarer on his way to the high hills. If it will make you feel any
more comfortable, madam, I will say that I don't know who you are. So, you
see, we are in the same boat. You are waiting for a man and I am waiting
for daylight. I sincerely trust you may not have as long to wait as I.
Believe me, I regard myself as a gentleman. You are quite as safe with me
as you will be with the agent, or with Mr.--Mr. Dudley, for that matter."

"You may go home to your wife, Mr. Agent," she said promptly. "Mr.
Rollins will let the trains through, I'm sure."