that she had cut the last tie that bound her to the old
life, and involuntarily she rose to her feet, as if to get out. A man
sitting in the opposite corner, thinking she was going to close the
carriage window, laid a restraining hand upon her.

"Don't close it," he said, "fresh air is what we all need, though we may
not in our ignorance think so. But you take it from me, miss, that you
can't get too much fresh air. Let it play about you, and keep it always
passing through your room, or the railway carriage when traveling, and
you'll never be ill. Look at me," he continued aggressively, almost
fiercely, and very pompously, "the very picture of health--never had a
day's illness in my life. And what is the reason? Why, fresh air. It is
the grand life-giver. No, miss, leave the window open. You can't get too
much of it. Let it play about you, draw it deeply into your lungs like
this," and he took a great deep draught, until Mysie thought he was
going to expand so much that he might fall out of the carriage window,
or burst open its sides. Then, he let it out in a long, loud blast, like
a miniature cyclone, making a noise like escaping steam; while his eyes
seemed as if they had made up their minds to jump out, had the blast and
the pressure not eased them at the last critical moment.

Then he stood panting, his shoulders going up and down, and his chest
going out and in, like a pair of bellows in a country blacksmith's shop.

"Nothing like fresh air, miss," he panted. "You take my tip on that.
I've proved it. Just look at me. I'm health itself, and might make a
fortune by sitting as an advertisement for somebody's patent pills, only
I feel too honorable for that; for it is fresh air that has done it.
Fresh air, and plenty of it!" and he turned his nose again in the
direction of the window, as if he would gulp the air down in gallons--a
veritable glutton of Boreas.

Mysie could not speak. She was overwhelmed by the blast of oratory upon
air, and a woman who sat on the far side of a closed window, with
tight-drawn lips and smoldering eyes, looked challengingly at this fresh
air fanatic, observing with quiet sarcasm: "A complexion like that might
make a fortune, if done with colors to the life, in advertising some
one's 'Old Highland'!"

The fresh air apostle gasped a little, looking across at the grim set
mouth and the quiet, steady eyes, as if he would like to retort; but,
finding no ready words, he merely wiped his fo