an conductor, who knows each one of his
passengers and wakes him up at his station. The sleeper is unique. It
is run for the benefit of those who ride in it, not for the company's.
It not only puts them off properly; it waits for them, if they are not
there. The conductor knows that they will come. They are men, mostly,
with small homes beyond the bridge, whose work takes them down town to
the markets, the Post-office, and the busy marts of the city long
before cockcrow. The day begins in New York at all hours.

Usually the sleeper is all that its name implies, but this morning it
was as far from it as could be. A party of young people, fresh from a
neighboring hop, had come on board and filled the rear end of the
car. Their feet tripped yet to the dance, and snatches of the latest
waltz floated through the train between peals of laughter and little
girlish shrieks. The regulars glared, discontented, in strange seats,
unable to go to sleep. Only the railroad yardmen dropped off promptly
as they came in. Theirs was the shortest ride, and they could least
afford to lose time. Two old Irishmen, flanked by their dinner-pails,
gravely discussed the Henry George campaign.

Across the passage sat a group of three apart--a young man, a girl,
and a little elderly woman with lines of care and hard work in her
patient face. She guarded carefully three umbrellas, a very old and
faded one, and two that were new and of silk, which she held in her
lap, though it had not rained for a month. He was a likely young
fellow, tall and straight, with the thoughtful eye of a student. His
dark hair fell nearly to his shoulders, and his coat had a foreign
cut. The girl was a typical child of the city, slight and graceful of
form, dressed in good taste, and with a bright, winning face. The two
chatted confidentially together, forgetful of all else, while mamma,
between them, nodded sleepily in her seat.

A sudden burst of white light flooded the car.

"Hey! Ninety-ninth Street!" called the conductor, and rattled the
door. The railroad men tumbled out pell-mell, all but one. Conrad
shook him, and he went out mechanically, blinking his eyes.

"Eighty-ninth next!" from the doorway.

The laughter at the rear end of the car had died out. The young
people, in a quieter mood, were humming a popular love-song. Presently
above the rest rose a clear tenor:--

Oh, promise me that some day you and I
Will take our love together to some sky
Wher