l or melancholy thought. I had gone to the
doctor's house two nights before prepared to die, prepared for worse
than death; what had passed, terrible although it was, looked almost
bright compared to my anticipations; and it was not till I had slept a
full night in the flying palace car that I awoke to the sense of my
irreparable loss and to some reasonable alarm about the future. In this
mood I examined the contents of the bag. It was well supplied with gold;
it contained tickets and complete directions for my journey as far as
Liverpool, and a long letter from the doctor, supplying me with a
fictitious name and story, recommending the most guarded silence, and
bidding me to await faithfully the coming of his son. All then had been
arranged beforehand: he had counted upon my consent, and, what was
tenfold worse, upon my mother's voluntary death. My horror of my only
friend, my aversion for this son who was to marry me, my revolt against
the whole current and conditions of my life, were now complete. I was
sitting stupefied by my distress and helplessness, when, to my joy, a
very pleasant lady offered me her conversation. I clutched at the
relief; and I was soon glibly telling her the story in the doctor's
letter: how I was a Miss Gould, of Nevada City, going to England to an
uncle, what money I had, what family, my age, and so forth, until I had
exhausted my instructions, and, as the lady still continued to ply me
with questions, began to embroider on my own account. This soon carried
one of my inexperience beyond her depth; and I had already remarked a
shadow on the lady's face, when a gentleman drew near and very civilly
addressed me:

"Miss Gould, I believe?" said he; and then, excusing himself to the lady
by the authority of my guardian, drew me to the fore platform of the
Pullman car. "Miss Gould," he said in my ear, "is it possible that you
suppose yourself in safety? Let me completely undeceive you. One more
such indiscretion and you return to Utah. And, in the meanwhile, if this
woman should again address you, you are to reply with these words:
'Madam, I do not like you, and I will be obliged if you will suffer me
to choose my own associates.'"

Alas, I had to do as I was bid; this lady, to whom I already felt myself
drawn with the strongest cords of sympathy, I dismissed with insult; and
thenceforward, through all that day I sat in silence, gazing on the bare
plains and swallowing my tears. Let that suffice: