Who can it be from?" At
once she thought of her mother.

"I don't know," answered the lad. "Mr. Burke, at the station, took it
over the telephone, and wrote it out. Here it is," and he held up an
envelope. "It's all paid, and you don't have to sign the book; it
isn't a regular telegram."

With trembling fingers Freda tore open the envelope. There was a
single slip of paper inside and on it was written in the hand of the
station agent:

"If you would do your mother a service come to Wickford Junction at
once."

* * * * *

"Wickford Junction!" gasped Freda, as the messenger boy rode away.
"Why, how did mother get there? That's in the opposite direction from
Lamberton. Oh, there must have been some accident, and she has been
taken there! I must go to her!"

Hastily Freda looked in her purse. She had barely money enough for the
ticket, but she would go. On eager and anxious feet she sped toward
the railroad depot. It was getting much darker.

"Oh, Mr. Burke!" Freda gasped, when she saw the agent behind his
little wicket gate, "I've got to go to Wickford Junction. Mother is
there."

"She is, Freda? Why I sold her a ticket to Lamberton this morning."

"I know. But there must have been some accident. I just got a message
from Wickford Junction."

"I know, for I wrote it down. The person wouldn't give any name, but
I'm sure it wasn't your mother."

"No, it couldn't have been! She's hurt!"

"Hurt?"

"Well, of course I'm not sure, but I fear she is. She must have told
someone to send it. I've got to go. How much is a ticket?"

"Eighty-five cents. The train's due now. There she comes," he added,
as a distant whistle sounded.

Freda had barely time to get her ticket and hurry aboard.

"Don't worry," the agent called out to her. "There hasn't been any
accident, or I'd have heard of it."

But Freda did worry. All the way in the train she was a prey to
nervous fears, and when the Junction was finally reached she was
hardly able to keep up.

But there was no sign of an accident, and her mother was not there
when she alighted--the only passenger to get off.

Wickford Junction was hardly more than a flag station, and there was
an agent there only part of the time. He was not there now, but in the
dingy waiting room, where Freda went to make inquiries, she found a
shabbily dressed woman.

"Are you Freda Lewis?" the latter asked, starting forward.

"Yes, I am. But how