"Not even Lafayette could have been as kind as that," she said
proudly, and leaned happily against the wall again.

"Why, Joy, dear, don't you want to come in and see the people?"
Grandmother was asking her solicitously, bending over her. "You
aren't sick again, are you?"

Joy sprang up with a little laugh.

"Not a bit," she assured her. "I'm especially all right. Why,
yes--I'll come in if you want me, of course. The people don't matter."

She threaded her way, behind Grandmother, up and down the parlors
for the next hour, quite happy. She'd had such a wonderful five
minutes in the back hall--why, what difference did it make if Mr.
James Arthur Gosport captured her and told her about his ideas on
universal brotherhood? She didn't have to listen specially, because
she knew just what he was going to tell: the story about how he went
out from his parlor-car and hunted through the day-coach to find a
brake-man, on purpose to tell him how fond he was of him. And how
the brakeman's eyes filled up with tears at being loved, and how Mr.
Gosport had to hurry back to his Pullman in order not to go to
pieces himself.

When Mr. Gosport told this tale--it was one he used in his lectures,
and it always went splendidly--Joy usually had to keep herself from
wondering why he didn't go to pieces anyhow; he was so long and
loosely built you'd think he was merely pinned together. But this
afternoon she smiled at him so brightly that he liked the way he
told the story better than ever. She was really thinking--