s eyes were never lifted
from her face.

The gate for Wilmot's train was suddenly slid wide open with a horrid,
rasping noise, and people began to press upon the man who examined the
tickets. It was then that Barbara's roving and troubled eyes came to
rest, you may say, in Wilmot's, with a look so sweet, so confiding, so
trusting, that it seemed to the young man that the pain of separation
was going to be greater than he could bear. He lifted his hands as if to
take her in his arms, and stood there like a study in arrested motion.

"Best friend in the world," she said, the great eyes still in his, "most
charming companion in the world--man I've hurt so much and so
often--only say the word."

"What word? That I love you--love you--love you?"

They spoke in whispers.

"Stay with me," she said, "and for me--or take me with you. I can't bear
this. I can't bear it."

"You'd come--now--just as you are?"

"Yes."

"Do you love me?"

Slowly, like two things in anguish, her eyes turned from their steady
gazing into his. And, "I dare not say it," she said, "but I will go with
you--and try."

They were aware of something pressing toward them, and turning with a
common resentment against interruption, they found themselves looking
down upon the legless man.

"Just dropped in to say good-by and wish you good luck," he said.
His face wore a good-natured smile, and, quite innocent of
self-consciousness, brought confusion upon their last moments together.
The tentacles of unreasoning passion that each had been putting forth
were beaten down by it and aside.

"Better get a move on--time's up."

"Good-by, Wilmot," said Barbara swiftly. "Everything's all right. Good
luck to you and God bless you."

She turned, her lovely head drooping, and walked swiftly away.

A young man took off his hat and held it in his hands until she had
passed. He had been watching her and Wilmot, and incidentally the
legless man, for the last ten minutes. He hoped that she would look up
and speak to him, but her mind was given singly to sorrow. And she went
through the station to the street without knowing if it was crowded or
deserted. Harry West's sad eyes followed her until she was out of sight.
Then with a sort of wrench he turned once more to observe the actions of
the legless man. This one, however, having said cheerful good-bys to the
sulky and heartsick Wilmot, and having at the same time noted the
obtrusive nearness of the secret-serv