t down stream more than a mile before he
succeeded in accomplishing his purpose.

Finally his feet touched bottom, and he drew his prize to shore. It was
a car seat, torn from its fastenings. Tightly wedged between it and its
hinged back was a confused bundle, from which came a smothered wailing.
Tearing away the wrappings, Luke Matherson stared for a moment, in a
dazed fashion, at what they had held so safely. He could hardly believe
that it was a live baby, lying there as rosy and unharmed as though in
its cradle.

The sun had risen when the engine-driver, haggard, exhausted, with
clothing torn and muddy, but holding the babe clasped tightly in his
arms, staggered into the nearest farm-house, two miles back from the
creek.

After his night of intense mental strain, the shock of the disaster, his
plunge into the chilling waters, and his subsequent struggle to save the
only surviving passenger of the train, it is not surprising that even
Luke Matherson's strong frame yielded, and that for several weeks he was
prostrated by a low fever. All this time the baby was kept at the
farm-house with him, in order that he might be identified and claimed;
but nobody came for him, nor were any inquiries made concerning the
child. He was called "the Glen Eddy baby" by the few settlers of that
sparsely populated region, who came to gaze at him curiously and
pityingly. Thus those who cared for him gradually came to call him
"Glen" for want of a better name; and, as the initials embroidered on
the blanket saved with him were "G. E.," people soon forgot that Glen
Eddy was not his real name.

Although several bodies were recovered from the wreck of the express,
that of the young mother was not among them; and, as there was no one
left alive who knew that she had been on the train, of course her death
was not reported. Thus the mystery surrounding the Glen Eddy baby was so
impenetrable that, after a while, people gave up trying to solve it, and
finally it was almost forgotten.

When Luke Matherson recovered from his fever, nothing could induce him
to return to his duties as engine-driver on the railroad.

"No," he said, "never will I put myself in the way of going through
another such night as that last one."

He went to Cincinnati as soon as he was able to travel, and while there
was offered a position in the engine-room of a large mill at Brimfield,
in western Pennsylvania, which he accepted. The people of the farm-house
where h