sto Poggi, who had
died some months before, a resident of that city. He had left $20,000.00
to Cornwall's client, Luigi Poggi, a miner living on Straight Creek near
the old Saylor home.

After this settlement was made it was his intention to return home by
way of Pittsburgh, stopping there to attend a stockholders' meeting of
the Pittsburgh Coal & Coke Company, of which corporation he had been a
director for more than three years.

As he took his seat in number 9 he saw that quite an attractive-looking
young woman occupied the opposite section. Her face seemed quite
familiar, in that she might have sat for the photograph which occupied
so conspicuous a place on his bedroom dresser. He watched her, hoping
that she might glance up from the book which claimed her whole
attention.

On the front seat of her section, from beneath a summer wrap thrown over
the back, the end of a small leather handbag protruded and on it he
read; "M. E. S. Wellesley, Mass."

He felt a thrill of surprise and pleasure. Taking a second and very
careful look at the lady, he was convinced that he had found the
original of the photograph and discovered the identity of the attractive
stranger, though it was more than twelve years since he had last seen
her.

How Mary had changed! Her beauty was none the less than when he had
first seen her, a rosy-cheeked mountain girl, who looked at every
strange thing in wide-eyed, timid wonder; who blushed when she was
spoken to; and finally, when her timidity wore away, talked with him in
her crude mountain idioms and localisms. He felt sure that when this
cultured creature, who radiated poise and refinement, should feel
inclined to speak after a most formal introduction, her voice would be
soft and low, her words precise and her accent give certain identity of
Bostonian culture and residence.

So the mountain lawyer, too snubbed by even this thought to rise and
speak, sat in confusion across the aisle and made timid inventory of the
charm and grace of his traveling companion.

She looked up from her book at a screw head in the panel about two feet
above John's head, with a fixed thoughtful glance that saw nothing else;
and John blushed. Her dreamy brown eyes spoke of a shackled or
slumbering soul, voluntarily enduring the isolation of cultured
spinsterhood, in search for the higher life. He felt the cold, bony hand
of death reach out and crush his dream of love. After another hour of
observation, the su