per end of
the platform, the station master flashed his lantern, tumbled the
luggage closer to the track and examined the checks critically; while
the Man of Tact came out from his retirement and overlooked the
proceeding.

Something was coming down the track, swiftly, silently. He could just
discern a shape moving toward him. It came nearer, and he moved up a
few paces, and turned again where the lantern's rays fell upon him. It
came nearer yet and paused in the shadow. It was a woman's form, and
it beckoned. He approached carelessly.

"Lucian!" She came close to him, and placed her hand upon his arm,
drawing her breath hard and quick.

He drew her farther into the shadow and clasped his arms about her.
"Little one! You have walked fast,--how your heart beats! I had given
you up. Is it 'good by,' dear?"

She silently held up the little chatelaine, which he felt rather than
saw, and took from her hand. In the darkness, he smiled again the old
exultant smile not good to see, and pressing her closer in his arms,
said:

"Don't try to talk, sweet one; see, yonder comes our fiery horse and
soon we will be far on our way. Take my arm, little one, and trust him
who loves you. Look your last at the scene of your past
loneliness,--to-morrow comes the gay world."

Rattling and shrieking, the train approached. Lucian hurried his
companion upon the rear platform; and neither his comrade, who entered
the smoking car without looking about him, nor the station master,
busy with his trunks and valises, observed that a third passenger
quitted Bellair station on the night express.

About them, the passengers nodded, yawned or slept. Outside, swiftly
passing darkness. And every moment was hurrying her farther and
farther away from all familiar scenes and objects, out to a life all
untried, a world all new and strange. But she never thought of this.
She was not elated, neither was she cast down. She felt no fear;--and,
afterwards, she remembered that she indulged in no bright visions of
the future during her swift flight.

She had prepared herself to relate her story, to describe the scene
she had just passed through, to tell him all. But he had other things
to occupy his mind, and bidding her to rest and save all she might
have to relate until the morrow, he relapsed into silence and thought,
only now and then gently speaking a word, and looking after her
comfort with a happy grace possessed by few, and so powerful in the
winn