r he was gone, Claude looked at his watch, threw away the end
of his cigar, and went back through the Pullman cars. The
passengers had gone to bed; the overhead lights were always
turned low when the train left Frankfort. He made his way through
the aisles of swaying green curtains, and tapped at the door of
his state room. It opened a little way, and Enid stood there in a
white silk dressing-gown with many ruffles, her hair in two
smooth braids over her shoulders.

"Claude," she said in a low voice, "would you mind getting a
berth somewhere out in the car tonight? The porter says they are
not all taken. I'm not feeling very well. I think the dressing on
the chicken salad must have been too rich."

He answered mechanically. "Yes, certainly. Can't I get you
something?"

"No, thank you. Sleep will do me more good than anything else.
Good-night."

She closed the door, and he heard the lock slip. He stood looking
at the highly polished wood of the panel for a moment, then
turned irresolutely and went back along the slightly swaying
aisle of green curtains. In the observation car he stretched
himself out upon two wicker chairs and lit another cigar. At
twelve o'clock the porter came in.

"This car is closed for the night, sah. Is you the gen'leman from
the stateroom in fourteen? Do you want a lower?"

"No, thank you. Is there a smoking car?"

"They is the day-coach smokah, but it ain't likely very clean at
this time o' night."

"That's all right. It's forward?" Claude absently handed him a
coin, and the porter conducted him to a very dirty car where the
floor was littered with newspapers and cigar stumps, and the
leather cushions were grey with dust. A few desperate looking men
lay about with their shoes off and their suspenders hanging down
their backs. The sight of them reminded Claude that his left foot
was very sore, and that his shoes must have been hurting him for
some time. He pulled them off, and thrust his feet, in their silk
socks, on the opposite seat.

On that long, dirty, uncomfortable ride Claude felt many things,
but the paramount feeling was homesickness. His hurt was of a
kind that made him turn with a sort of aching cowardice to the
old, familiar things that were as sure as the sunrise. If only
the sagebrush plain, over which the stars were shining, could
suddenly break up and resolve itself into the windings of Lovely
Creek, with his father's house on the hill, dark and silent in
the summer