“It’s all right!” said Father, excitedly, “but that’s one thing we forgot.  We’d ought to have sent her word we would meet her at the station, and what time the train left Grant’s Junction, and all!  Now that’s too bad!”

“Now don’t you worry, Father.  She’ll find her way.  Like as not the conductor will have a time-table and be able to tell her all about the trains.  But I certainly do wish we had let her know we would meet her.”

They were still worrying about it that night at nine o’clock while Father wound the kitchen clock and Mother put a mackerel asoak for breakfast.  Suddenly the telephone in the next room gave a whir, and both Father and Mother jumped as if they had been shot, looking at each other in bewildered question as they hastened to the ’phone.

It was Father who took down the receiver.  “A telegram?  For Mr. Seth Marshall!  Yes, I’m listening!  Write it down, Mother!  A telegram!”

“Mercy!  Perhaps she wasn’t well enough to start!” gasped mother, putting her pencil in place.

     Miss Brentwood left to-night at nine-fifteen on express
     number ten, car Alicia lower berth number eight.  Please let
     me know if she arrives safely.

PAUL COURTLAND.

“Now isn’t that thoughtful of him!” he said, as he hung up the receiver.  “He must have sensed we wanted to send her word, and now we can do it!”

“Send her word!” said Mother, bewildered.

“Why, surely!  Haven’t you read in the papers how they send messages to trains that are moving?  It’s great, isn’t it, Mother?  To think this little dinky telephone puts you and me out here on this farm in touch with all the world.”

“Do you mean you can send a telegram to her on board the train, Seth?” asked Mother, in astonishment.

“Sure!” said Father.  “We’ve got all the numbers of everything.  Just send to that express train that left to-night.  What was it—­Express number ten, and so on, and it’ll be sent along and get to her.”

“Well, I think I’d ask her to answer then, to make sure she got it.  I think that’s a mighty uncertain way to send messages to people flying along on an express train.  If you don’t get any word from her you’ll never know whether she got it or not, and then you won’t know whether to meet her at Sloan’s or Maitland,” said Mother, with a worried pucker on her forehead.

“Sure!” said Father, taking down the receiver.  “I can do that.”

“It’s just wonderful, Seth, how much you know about little important things like that!” sighed Mother, when the telegram was sent.  “Now, I think we better go right to bed, for I’ve got to get to baking early in the morning.  I want to have bread and pies and doughnuts fresh when she comes.”

It was while they were eating breakfast that the answer came: 

     Telegram received.  Will come to Sloan’s Station.  Having
     comfortable journey.  R.B.B.