By the next day, however, he had forgotten his ill-humour and was at the
station fully ten minutes before six o'clock. As it happened, only one
woman was among the passengers who left the train at that point.

"Mrs. Lee?" he asked, taking her suit-case from her.

"Yes. Mr. Marsh?"

"Yes. This way, please."

"How did you know me?" she inquired, as she took her place in the worn
coupe that had been in the Marsh stables for almost twenty years.

"By your handwriting," he laughed, closing the door.

[Sidenote: With Bag and Baggage]

A smile hovered for a moment around the corners of her mouth, then
disappeared.

"Then, too," he went on, "as you were the only woman who got off the
train, and we were expecting you, I took the liberty of speaking to
you."

"Did you ask the man to have my trunk sent up?"

"Trunk!" echoed Alden, helplessly. "Why, no! Was there a trunk?"

She laughed--a little, low rippling laugh that had in it an undertone of
sadness. There was a peculiar, throaty quality in her voice, like a
muted violin or 'cello. "Don't be so frightened, please, for I'm not
going to stay long, really. I'm merely the sort of woman who can't stay
over night anywhere without a lot of baggage."

"It--it wasn't that," he murmured.

"Yes, it was. You don't need to tell me polite fibs, you know. How far
are we from the house?"

"Not as far," returned Alden, rallying all his forces for one supreme
effort of gallantry, "as I wish we were."

She laughed again, began to speak, then relapsed into silence.
Furtively, in the gathering shadow, he studied her face. She was pale
and cold, the delicate lines of her profile conveyed a certain aloofness
of spirit, and her mouth drooped at the corners. Her hat and veil
covered her hair, but she had brown eyes with long lashes. Very long
lashes, Alden noted, having looked at them a second time to make sure.

[Sidenote: A Child of the City]

The silence became awkward, but he could think of nothing to say. She
had turned her face away from him and was looking out of the window.
"How lovely the country is," she said, pensively. "I wish sometimes I
never had to step on a pavement again."

"Do you have to?" he asked.

"Yes, for I'm over-civilised. Like the god in Greek mythology, I need
the touch of earth occasionally to renew my strength, but a very brief
contact is all-sufficient. I'm a child of the city, brought up on smoke
and noise."

"You don't look it," he said, chi