“You will at least take this,” he said, drawing from his pocket an inconspicuous purse of beautiful leather, and putting into it all the money his pockets contained.  “I saw you had no pocketbook,” he went on, “and I ventured to get this one in the drug-store below the station.  Will you accept it from me?  I have your ring, you know, and when you take the ring back you may, if you wish, return the purse.  I wish it were a better one, but it was the most decent one they had.  You will need it to carry your ticket.  And I have put in the change.  It would not do for you to be entirely without money.  I’m sorry it isn’t more.  There are only nine dollars and seventy-five cents left.  Do you think that will see you through?  If there had been any place down-town here where I could cash a check at this time of night, I should have made it more.”

He looked at her anxiously as he handed over the pocketbook.  It seemed a ridiculously small sum with which to begin a journey alone, especially for a young woman of her apparent refinement.  On the other hand, his friends would probably say he was a fool for having hazarded so much as he had upon an unknown woman, who was perhaps an adventuress.  However, he had thrown discretion to the winds, and was undeniably interested in his new acquaintance.

“How thoughtful you are!” said the girl.  “It would have been most embarrassing not to have a place to put my ticket, nor any money.  This seems a fortune after being penniless”—­she smiled ruefully.  “Are you sure you have not reduced yourself to that condition?  Have you saved enough to carry you home?”

“Oh, I have my mileage book with me,” he said happily.  It pleased him absurdly that she had not declined the pocketbook.

“Thank you so much.  I shall return the price of the ticket and this money as soon as possible,” said the girl earnestly.

“You must not think of that,” he protested.  “You know I have your ring.  That is far more valuable than anything I have given you.”

“Oh, but you said you were going to keep the ring, so that will not pay for this, I want to be sure that you lose nothing.”

He suddenly became aware that the train was whistling and that the conductor was motioning him to go.

“But you have not told me your name,” he cried in dismay.

“You have named me,” she answered, smiling.  “I am Mary Remington.”

“But that is not your real name.”

“You may call me Mary if you like,” she said.  “Now go, please, quick!  I’m afraid you’ll get hurt.”

“You will remember that I am your friend?”

“Yes, thank you.  Hurry, please!”

The train paused long enough for him to step in front of her window and wave his hat in salute.  Then she passed on into the night, and only two twinkling lights, like diminishing red berries, marked the progress of the train until it disappeared in the cut.  Nothing was left but the hollow echoes of its going, which the hills gave back.