rms
around Fairfax's neck and brought her face close to his cheek.

"I miss him perfectly dreadfully, Cousin Antony. Nobody took care of him
much but me. Now father is broken-hearted. You loved him, didn't you? He
perfectly worshipped you."

"There, Bella, you choke me, honey. I can't breathe. Now tell me who let
you come. Is Aunt Caroline here?"

She had no intention of answering him, and wiped her eyes briskly on the
handkerchief that he gave her.

"Tobacco," she sniffed, "your handkerchief has got little wisps of
tobacco on it. I think it is perfectly splendid to be an engineer! I
wouldn't have thought so though, if I hadn't seen you in the flannel
shirt. Wouldn't you rather be a _genius_ as you used to think? Don't
you make casts any more? Isn't it _sweet_ in your little room, and
aren't the tracks mixing? How do you ever know which ones to go on,
Cousin Antony? And _which_ is your engine? Take me down to see it. How
Gardiner would have loved to ride!"

She was a startling combination of child and woman. Her slenderness, her
grace, her tender words, the easy flow of speech, the choice of words
caught and remembered from the varied books she devoured, her ardour and
her rare brilliant little face, all made her an unusual companion.

"Now answer me," he ordered, "who came with you to Albany?"

"No one, Cousin Antony."

"What do you mean?"

"I came alone."

"From New York? You're crazy, Bella!"

She sat up with spirit, brought her heavy braid around over her shoulder
and fastened the black ribbon securely.

"I lose my hair ribbons like anything," she said. "Why, I've done things
alone for years, Cousin Antony. I've been all over New York matching
things. I used to buy all Gardiner's things alone and have them charged.
I know my way. I'm going on fourteen. You dropped your telegram, the one
Miss Mitty sent you, when you rushed out that night. I found it on the
stairs." She fished it out of her pocket. "Mr. Antony Fairfax, 42, Nut
Street, West Albany. I had to watch for a good chance to come, and when
I got to Forty-second Street I just took a ticket for West Albany, and
no one ever asked me my name or address, and the people in the cars gave
me candy and oranges. At the station down here I asked the ticket man
where Nut Street was, and he said: 'Right over those tracks, young
lady,' and laughed at me. Downstairs the woman gave me a glass of
milk--and aren't the children too sweet, Cousin Antony, with so m