In a neighboring stateroom a lonely soul, bewildered and despairing, struggled through the darkness towards the light.

* * * * *

The last snow of the winter lay in soft beauty upon the streets of Marlborough as Evadne’s train drew into the railway station.  Instantly all was bustle and confusion throughout the cars.  Evadne shrank back in her seat and waited.  Instinctively she felt that for her there would be no joyous welcome.  Inexpressibly dreary as the journey had been she was sorry it was at an end.  An overwhelming embarrassment of shyness seized upon her, and the chill desolation of loneliness seemed to shut down about her like a cloud.

A young man sauntered past her with his hands in his pockets.  When he reached the end of the car he turned and surveyed the passengers leisurely, then he came back to her seat.  He lifted his hat with lazy politeness.

“Miss Hildreth, I believe?”

Evadne bowed.  He shook hands coolly.

“I have the honor of introducing myself as your cousin Louis.”

He made no attempt to give her a warmer greeting, and Evadne was glad, but how dreary it was!

Louis led the way out of the station to where a pair of magnificent horses stood, tossing their regal heads impatiently.  A colored coachman stood beside them, clad in fur.

“Pompey,” he said, “this is Miss Evadne Hildreth from Barbadoes.”

The man bent his head low over the little hand which was instantly stretched out to him.  “I’se very glad to see Miss ’Vadney,” he said with simple fervor.  “I was powerful fond of Mass Lennux;” and Evadne felt she had received her warmest welcome.

She nestled down among the soft robes of the sleigh while the silver bells rang merrily through the frosty air.  It was all so new and strange.  A leaden weight seemed to be settling down upon her heart and she felt as if she were choking, but she threw it off.  She dared not let herself think.  She began to talk rapidly.

“What splendid horses you have!  Surely they must be thoroughbreds?  No ordinary horses could ever hold their heads like that.”

Louis nodded.  “You have a quick eye,” he said approvingly.  “Most girls would not know a thoroughbred from a draught horse.  You have hit upon the surest way to get into my father’s good graces.  His horses are his hobby.”

“What are their names?”

“Brutus and Caesar.  The Judge is nothing if not classical.”

As they mounted the front steps the faint notes of a guitar sounded from the front room.

“Confound Isabelle and her eternal twanging!” muttered Louis, as he fumbled for his latch-key.  “It would be a more orthodox welcome if you found your relations waiting for you with open arms, but the Hildreth family is not given to gush.  Isabelle will tell you it is not good form.  So we keep our emotions hermetically sealed and stowed away under decorous lock and key, polite society having found them inconvenient things to handle, partaking of the nature of nitroglycerine, you know, and liable to spontaneous combustion.”