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“Y-yes; a seat somewhere,” stammered Miss Mason. The near approach of the train was making her feel nervous.

“All right. I’ll see to it. Second class I think you said.”

There was a distant whistle; next, the panting as of some great beast, and an engine with its tail of carriages steamed into sight. It drew up slowly at the platform.

“Here y’are, ma’am. Carriage all to yourself. Boxes will be in the front part of the train. Thank you kindly, ma’am. Anything I can get for you? Paper or anything? Window up or down? Will put in the boxes myself. Good morning, ma’am.”

A tip proportionate to the fare Miss Mason had paid the cabby was responsible for this burst of eloquence.

In spite of the porter’s assurance that he would see to the boxes himself, Miss Mason stood with her head through the carriage window till she had seen them actually deposited in the guard’s van. Then she sat down in the corner of the carriage.

The porter reappeared.

“They’re in, ma’am. You’re off now.”

There was a gentle vibration through the train, and the platform began to recede. The one woman left on it—a stout woman who had been seeing her daughter off on her way to service—waved a large white pocket-handkerchief. Its fluttering was the last thing Miss Mason saw as the train left the station.