he conductor was not in sight, and she
didn't like to ask the man beside her.

So she rose, as if to leave the car.

The red-faced man rose also, and stepped back as she passed him. In a
moment she found herself on the platform, and the train soon went on.
Everything about the station looked unfamiliar, and glancing up, she saw
by a large sign that she was at Newark! She had never before been in
Newark, though she knew in a general way where it was. She went
uncertainly into the station, and looked at the clock. It was after
five. Marjorie knew she could take another train, and proceed to Jersey
City, and so to New York, but her courage had failed her, and she
couldn't bear the thought of travelling any further.

And yet, how could she stay where she was? Also, she began to feel very
hungry. The exhaustion caused by her emotional grief, and her wearisome
journey, made her feel hollow and faint.

She sank down on a seat in the waiting-room, sadly conscious of her
lonely and desolate situation.

She tried to summon anew her natural pluck and independence.

"Marjorie Maynard!" she said, to herself, and then stopped,--overwhelmed
by the thought that she had no right even to that name!

Presently a voice beside her said: "Now, little miss, won't you let me
help you?"

She turned sharply, and looked the red-faced man in the eyes.

He didn't look very refined, he didn't even look good, but the sound of
a friendly voice was like a straw held out to a drowning man.

"How can you help me?" she said, miserably.

"Well, fust off, where've ye set out fur?"

The man was uncultured, but there was a note of sincerity in his speech
that impressed Marjorie, now that she was so friendless and alone.

"New York," she replied.

"Why'd ye get out at Newark?"

"I made a mistake," she confessed.

"An' what be ye goin' to do now?"

"I don't know."

"Ah, jest what I thought! An' then ye ask, how kin I help ye?"

"Well, how can you?"

Under the spur of his strong voice, Marjorie's spirits had revived the
least bit, and she spoke bravely to him.

"Now, that's more peart-like. Wal, in the fust place I kin take ye home
with me, an' my old woman'll keep ye fer the night, an' I guess that's
what ye need most."

"Where do you live?"

"'Bout five miles out in the country."

"How do you get there?"

"Wal, I ain't got none o' them autymobiles, nor yet no airship; but I've
got a old nag that can do the piece in an hour or s