For ten minutes or more, as we whirled along the line in the Pullman car, I was too dazed and confused to notice anything around me.  My brain swam vaguely, filled full with wild whirling thoughts; the strange drama of my life, always teeming with mysteries, seemed to culminate in this reception in an unknown land by people who appeared almost to know more about my business than I myself did.  I gazed out of the window blankly.  In some vague dim way I saw we were passing between rocky hills, pine-clad and beautiful, with deep glimpses now and then into the riven gorge of a noble river.  But I didn’t even realise to myself that these were Canadian hills—­those were the heights of Abraham—­that was the silver St. Lawrence.  It all passed by like a living dream.  I sat still in my chair, as one stunned and faint; I gazed out, more dead than alive, on the unfamiliar scene that unrolled itself in exquisite panorama before me.  Quebec and the Laurentian hills were to me half unreal:  the inner senses alone were awake and conscious.

Presently a gentle voice at my side broke, not at all unpleasantly, the current of my reflections.  It was a lady’s voice, very sweet and musical.

“I’m afraid,” it said kindly, with an air of tender solicitude, “you only just caught the train, and were hurried and worried and flurried at the last at the station.  You look so white and tired.  How your breath comes and goes!  And I think you’re new to our Canadian ways.  I saw you didn’t understand about the checks for the baggage.  Let me take away this bag and put it up in the rack for you.  Here’s a footstool for your feet; that’ll make you more comfortable.”

At the first sound of her sweet voice, I turned to look at the speaker.  She was a girl, perhaps a year or two younger than myself, very slender and graceful, and with eyes like a mother’s.  She wasn’t exactly pretty, but her face was so full of intelligence and expression that it was worth a great deal more than any doll-like prettiness.

Perhaps it was pleasure at being spoken to kindly at all in this land of strangers; perhaps it was revulsion from the agony of shame and modesty I had endured at Quebec; but, at any rate, I felt drawn at first sight to my sweet-voiced fellow-traveller.  Besides, she reminded me somewhat of Minnie Moore, and that resemblance alone was enough to attract me.  I looked up at her gratefully.

“Oh, thank you so much!” I cried, putting my bag in her hand.  “I’ve only just come out from England; and I’d hardly time at Quebec to catch the train; and the people crowded around so, that I was flustered at landing; and everything somehow seems to be going against me.”

And with that my poor overwrought nerves gave way all at once, and without any more ado I just burst out crying.

The lady by my side leant over me tenderly.

“There—­cry, dear,” she said, as if she’d known me for years, stooping down and almost caressing me.  “Jack,”—­and she turned to a tall gentleman at her side,—­“quick! you’ve got my black bag; get me out the sal volatile.  She’s quite faint, poor thing; we must look after her instantly.”