"Thanks," but didn't say no more.
Was they left behind? No, train didn't stop this side of Valley City;
but the gentleman could telegraph back, and they could come on safe and
sound in the morning express. 'Twarn't likely they'd gone north by the
little branch road, was it? Branch connects at Stringhampton for the
Northern Line.

But this suggestion made no impression upon Heathcote. Mademoiselle
lived in Valley City; he had seen her tickets for Valley City. No, it
was some unlooked-for mistake or accident. He gave the brakeman a
dollar, and went back into the car. But everything was gone--bags,
shawls, basket, cloak, bundle, and umbrella, all the miscellaneous
possessions with which mademoiselle was accustomed to travel; there had
been, then, deliberation enough to collect them all. He sat down
perplexed, and gradually the certainty stole coldly over him that Anne
had fled. It must be this.

For it was no freak of the Frenchwoman's; she had been too much pleased
with his escort to forego it willingly. He was deeply hurt. And deeply
surprised. Had he not followed her to ask her to be his wife? (This was
not true, but for the moment he thought it was.) Was this a proper
response?

Never before had he received such a rebuff, and after brooding over it
an hour in the dismal car, it grew into an insult. His deeper feelings
were aroused. Under his indolence he had a dominant pride, even
arrogance of nature, which would have astonished many who thought they
knew him. Whether his words had or had not been the result of impulse,
now that they were spoken, they were worthy of at least respect. He grew
more angry as the minutes passed, for he was so deeply hurt that he took
refuge in anger. To be so thwarted and played upon--he, a man of the
world--by a young girl; a young girl regarding whom, too, there had
sprung up in his heart almost the only real faith of his life! He had
believed in that face, had trusted those violet eyes, he did not know
how unquestioningly until now. And then, feeling something very like
moisture coming into his own eyes, he rose, angry over his weakness,
went forward to the smoking car, lit a cigar, and savagely tried to
think of other things. A pretty fool he was to be on a night train in
the heart of Pennsylvania, going no one knew whither.

But, in spite of himself, his mind stole back to Anne. She was so
different from the society women with whom he had always associated; she
had so plainly lo