er, how surely his presence of mind and trained energies
had forestalled the catastrophe. That was grand--heroic. It was well
worth its cost in terror to look on and see him strive with and conquer
the great straining monster of iron and steel. After that, one couldn't
well listen calmly to such things as her father had said of him.

And, admitting the truth of what had been said about his intellectual
shortcomings, was a certain glib familiarity with the modern catch-words
of book-talk and art criticism a fair test of intellectuality? Gertrude,
with her cheek still touching the cool window-pane, thought not. One
might read the reviews and talk superficially of more books than the
most painstaking student could ever know, even by sight. In like manner,
one might walk through the picture galleries and come away freighted
with great names wherewith to awe the untravelled lover of art. It was
quite evident that Mr. Brockway had done neither of these things, and
yet he was thoughtful and keenly observant; and if he were ignorant of
art, he knew and understood nature, which is the mother of all art.

From reinstating the passenger agent in his rights and privileges as a
man, she came presently upon the little incident in the cab of the 926.
How much or how little did he mean when he said he was happy to his
finger-tips? On the lips of the men of her world, such sayings went for
naught; they were but the tennis-balls of persiflage, served deftly, and
with the intent that they should rebound harmless. But she felt sure
that such a definition went wide of Mr. Brockway's meaning; of
compliments as such, he seemed to know less than nothing. And then he
had said that whatever came between them--no, that was not it--whatever
happened to either of them.... Ah, well, many things might happen--would
doubtless happen; but she would not forget, either.

The familiar sighing of the air-brake began again, and the low thunder
of the patient wheels became the diapason beneath the shrill song of the
brake-shoes. Then the red eye of a switch-lamp glanced in at Gertrude's
window, and the train swung slowly up to the platform at another prairie
hamlet. Just before it stopped, she caught a swift glimpse of a man
standing with outstretched arms, as if in mute appeal. It was Brockway.
He was merely standing in readiness to grasp the hand-rail of the Tadmor
when it should reach him; but Gertrude knew it not, and if she had, it
would have made no d