ed Peter was a
king. Everything was well. The world was his oyster. Life was his,
to make it what he would--youth and hope and joy. Under the beatific
influence he expanded, grew, almost shone. Youth and hope and joy--that
cometh in the morning.

The ecstasy passed away, but without reaction. Peter no longer shone;
he still glowed. He picked up the golden-haired baby and hugged it. He
hunted out a beggar he had passed and gave him five Hellers. He helped a
suspicious old lady with an oilcloth-covered bundle; he called the guard
on the train "son" and forced a grin out of that dignitary.

Peter traveled third-class, which was quite comfortable, and no bother
about "Nicht Rauchen" signs. His unreasonable cheerfulness persisted as
far as Gloggnitz. There, with the increasing ruggedness of the scenery
and his first view of the Raxalpe, came recollection of the urgency of
Stewart's last message, of Marie Jedlicka, of the sordid little tragedy
that awaited him at the end of his journey.

Peter sobered. Life was rather a mess, after all, he reflected. Love
was a blessing, but it was also a curse. After that he sat back in
his corner and let the mountain scenery take care of itself, while he
recalled the look he had surprised once or twice in Marie's eyes when
she looked at Stewart. It was sad, pitiful. Marie was a clever little
thing. If only she'd had a chance!--Why wasn't he rich enough to help
the ones who needed help. Marie could start again in America, with no
one the wiser, and make her way.

"Smart as the devil, these Austrian girls!" Peter reflected. "Poor
little guttersnipe!"

The weather was beautiful. The sleet of the previous day in Vienna had
been a deep snowfall on the mountains. The Schwarza was frozen, the
castle of Liechtenstein was gray against a white world. A little
pilgrimage church far below seemed snowed in against the faithful. The
third-class compartment filled with noisy skiing parties. The old woman
opened her oilcloth bundle, and taking a cat out of a box inside fed it
a sausage.

Up and up, past the Weinzettelwand and the Station Breitenstein, across
the highest viaduct, the Kalte Rinne, and so at last to Semmering.

The glow had died at last for Peter. He did not like his errand, was
very vague, indeed, as to just what that errand might be. He was stiff
and rather cold. Also he thought the cat might stifle in the oilcloth,
but the old woman too clearly distrusted him to make it possible
t