“Yes, and while the new lasts Lufton’ll be awful polite,” returned Marion.  “He likes to see his girls look stylish, I can tell you.  When things begin to shab out, then the snubbing begins.  And how they’re going to help shabbing out I should like to know, dragging round amongst the goods and polishing against the counters? and who’s going to afford ready-made, or pay for sewing, out of six dollars a week and cars and dinners, let alone regular board, that some of ’em have to take off?  Why there isn’t enough left for shoes!  No wonder Lufton’s always changing.  Well—­there’s one good of it!  You can always get a temporary there.  Save up a month and then put into port and refit.  That’s the way I do.”

“But what does it come to, after all’s said and done? and what if you hadn’t the port?” asked Hannah Upshaw, the girl with the shawl on, who never wore suits.

Marion Kent shrugged her shoulders.

“I don’t know, yet.  I take things as they come to me.  I don’t pretend to calculate for anybody else.  I know one thing, though, there is other things to be done,—­and it isn’t sewing-machines either, if you can once get started.  And when I can see my way clear, I mean to start.  See if I don’t!”

The train stopped at the Pomantic station.  The young man in the gray clothes rose up, took something from under the car-seat and went out.  What he had with him was a carpenter’s box.  It was the same youth who had greeted Ray Ingraham from beneath the elm branches.  As the train got slowly under way again, Marion looked straight out at her window into Frank Sunderline’s face, and bowed,—­very modestly and sweetly bowed.  He was waiting for that instant on the platform, until the track should be clear and he could cross.

What he caught in Marion’s look, as she turned it full upon him, nobody could see; but there was a quieter earnest in it, certainly, when she turned back; and the young man had responded to her salutation with a relaxing glance of friendly pleasantness that seemed more native to his face than the frown of a few minutes before.

Marion Kent had several selves; several relations, at any rate, into which she could put herself with others.  I think she showed young Sunderline, for that instant, out of gentler, questioning, almost beseeching eyes, a something she could not show to the whole car-full with whom at the moment of her entrance she had been in rapport, through frills and puffs and flutters, into which she had allowed her consciousness to pass.  Behind the little window he could only see a face; a face quieted down from its gay flippancy; a face that showed itself purposely and simply to him; eyes that said, “What was that you thought of me just now? Don’t think it!”

They were old neighbors and child-friends.  They had grown up together; had they been growing away from each other in some things since they had been older?  Often it appeared so; but it was Marion chiefly who seemed to change; then, all at once, in some unspoken and intangible way, for a moment like this, she seemed to come suddenly back again, or he seemed to catch a glimpse of that in her, hidden, not altered, which might come back one of these days.  Was it a glimpse, perhaps, like the sight the Lord has of each one of us, always?