“Then Seth stays away, does he, on the nights when he would be sure of passengers?”

The conductor laughed too, as he replied,—–­

“Well, ’tisn’t quite so bad’s that.  Ye see this here road’s only a piece of a road.  It’s goin’ up through to connect with the northern roads; but they ‘ve come to a stand-still for want o’ funds, an’ more ’n half the time I don’t carry nobody over this last ten miles.  Most o’ the people from our town go the other way, on the river road.  It’s shorter, an’ some cheaper.  There isn’t much travellin’ done by our folks, anyhow.  We’re a mighty dead an’ alive set up here.  Goin’ to stay a spell?” he continued, with increasing interest, as he looked longer into Mercy’s face.

“Probably,” said Mercy, in a grave tone, suddenly recollecting that she ought not to talk with this man as if he were one of her own village people.  The conductor, sensitive as are most New England people, spite of their apparent familiarity of address, to the least rebuff, felt the change in Mercy’s tone, and walked away, thinking half surlily, “She needn’t put on airs.  A schoolma’am, I reckon.  Wonder if it can be her that’s going to teach the Academy?”

When they reached the station, it was, as the conductor had said, very dark; and it was raining hard.  For the first time, a sense of her unprotected loneliness fell upon Mercy’s heart.  Her mother, but half-awake, clung nervously to her, asking purposeless and incoherent questions.  The conductor, still surly from his fancied rebuff at Mercy’s hands, walked away, and took no notice of them.  The station-master was nowhere to be seen.  The two women stood huddling together under one umbrella, gazing blankly about them.

“Is this Mrs. Philbrick?” came in clear, firm tones, out of the darkness behind them; and, in a second more, Mercy had turned and looked up into Stephen White’s face.

“Oh, how good you were to come and meet us!” exclaimed Mercy.  “You are Mr. Allen’s friend, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Stephen, curtly.  “But I did not come to meet you.  You must not thank me.  I had business here.  However, I made the one carriage which the town boasts, wait, in case you should be here.  Here it is!” And, before Mercy had time to analyze or even to realize the vague sense of disappointment she felt at his words, she found herself and her mother placed in the carriage, and the door shut.

“Your trunks cannot go up until morning,” he said, speaking through the carriage window; “but, if you will give me your checks, I will see that they are sent.”

“We have only one small valise,” said Mercy:  “that was under our seat.  The brakeman said he would take it out for us; but he forgot it, and so did I.”

The train was already backing out of the station.  Stephen smothered some very unchivalrous words on his lips, as he ran out into the rain, overtook the train, and swung himself on the last car, in search of the “one small valise” belonging to his tenants.  It was a very shabby valise:  it had made many a voyage with its first owner, Captain Carr.  It was a very little valise:  it could not have held one gown of any of the modern fashions.