u are!" said the girl. "It would have been most
embarrassing not to have a place to put my ticket, nor any money. This
seems a fortune after being penniless"--she smiled ruefully. "Are you sure
you have not reduced yourself to that condition? Have you saved enough to
carry you home?"

"Oh, I have my mileage book with me," he said happily. It pleased him
absurdly that she had not declined the pocketbook.

"Thank you so much. I shall return the price of the ticket and this money
as soon as possible," said the girl earnestly.

"You must not think of that," he protested. "You know I have your ring.
That is far more valuable than anything I have given you."

"Oh, but you said you were going to keep the ring, so that will not pay
for this, I want to be sure that you lose nothing."

He suddenly became aware that the train was whistling and that the
conductor was motioning him to go.

"But you have not told me your name," he cried in dismay.

"You have named me," she answered, smiling. "I am Mary Remington."

"But that is not your real name."

"You may call me Mary if you like," she said. "Now go, please, quick! I'm
afraid you'll get hurt."

"You will remember that I am your friend?"

"Yes, thank you. Hurry, please!"

The train paused long enough for him to step in front of her window and
wave his hat in salute. Then she passed on into the night, and only two
twinkling lights, like diminishing red berries, marked the progress of the
train until it disappeared in the cut. Nothing was left but the hollow
echoes of its going, which the hills gave back.

[Illustration]

IV

Dunham listened as long as his ear could catch the sound, then a strange
desolation settled down upon him. How was it that a few short hours ago he
had known nothing, cared nothing, about this stranger? And now her going
had left things blank enough! It was foolish, of course--just highly
wrought nerves over this most extraordinary occurrence. Life had
heretofore run in such smooth, conventional grooves as to have been almost
prosaic; and now to be suddenly plunged into romance and mystery
unbalanced him for the time. To-morrow, probably, he would again be able
to look sane living in the face, and perhaps call himself a fool for his
most unusual interest in this chance acquaintance; but just at this moment
when he had parted from her, when the memory of her lovely face and pure
eyes lingered with him, when her bravery and fear were both