e delays seemed endless, and she fairly
anathematized herself, because she had not run a block or two to a
cab-stand, and bidden one race the distance for double fare. Great
trucks seemed determined to appropriate the rails and ignore all
signals. At one place a jam of traffic stopped them entirely for a
space. At a certain railway crossing they had to wait before the gates,
Joyce in an ill-concealed agony of impatience, while a long freight
train steamed slowly by. She felt half tempted to spring out and walk,
then calmed herself with a contemptuous,

"How silly! I can take the next train. It will be tedious waiting, and
no wonder I dread it, but I can buy something at the news-stand to
read."

She scarcely waited for her car to stop when opposite the long, massive
stone building, and, rushing through the great, ever-swinging doors, she
traversed the office corridors with rapid tread, her hands too full of
packages to consult her watch. But twisting her head to see the round
clock, just above the entrance, with its great brass weights ponderously
doling off the time, in plain view, she started with dismay, for its
hands remorselessly pointed to fourteen minutes past five. One minute
late. It was too provoking! She felt the tears close, and dashed on down
the long steps leading to the passenger gates, at the risk of falling
full length. She hoped against hope that some unprecedented event might
have delayed the train. But as she sped along beside the cruel steel
netting that shut her from the railway tracks, she realized that she was
baffled. The one she was interested in was already pulling out from the
end of the long depot. She could see it through the lace-work of steel,
and knew every hope was gone. She must calm herself and wait. But she
could not refrain from watching it a moment, with hungry eyes, pressed
like a child's against the barrier. It was carrying George home, and she
was left behind! She felt like a deserted waif, and looked it. Somebody,
watching the little pantomime from behind a baggage truck not far away,
read in the gaze almost more than he dared to believe.

"Her disappointment is not on your account, you booby!" he told himself
frankly. "Don't be an idiot."

Joyce turned sadly, wearily, towards the waiting-room.

Her drooping figure, so unlike her usual erect and joyous bearing,
proclaimed her dejection, as well as fatigue.

She felt utterly spent.

She had not reached the room when a ha