The Quebec express whistled at the curve an eighth of a mile distant from the junction; the sound fell strangely flat in the intense cold. Cale braced himself to handling the horses. I followed Mr. Ewart to the front of the platform. The engine was thundering past us, and the train drawing to a stop of fifteen seconds. "Take off your mitten," he said abruptly; I pulled it off with a jerk. He held out his ungloved hand, and I laid mine within it. The two palms, warm, throbbing with coursing life, met-- "Goodby till Monday--and thank you for coming. There he is!" He had just time to see the Doctor appear on the platform at the other end of the car. Mr. Ewart called to him as he swung himself on to the already moving train: "John, look out for Miss Farrell--" The dazed Doctor failed to grasp the situation. Mr. Ewart waved his hand as he passed him; "Till Monday--Miss Farrell will explain." "Miss Farrell, eh?" The Doctor turned to me who was at his side by means of an awkward skip and a jump, cumbered as I was with the long coat. "Br-r-rre! Is this the weather you give me as a greeting?" "Why don't you say rather: 'Is this the weather you brave to meet me in?' Would n't that sound more to the point? Come on to the pung; the soapstones are fine." "Ah--that sounds more like Canadian hospitality. Come on yourself, Marcia Farrell; where's the pung?" "Behind the station, that is, if the horses have n't bolted with Cale and the four dogs. Here he is." Four canine noses were visible above the robes; eight delicate nostrils were flaring after the departing train. At the sound of the Doctor's voice a concerted howl arose from among the robes on the front seat--a howl expressive of disappointment, of betrayal by their master: "He is gone, we are left behind." "Shut up," said Cale shortly, with a significant movement of his foot beneath the robes. "Oh, Cale!" I made protest, for at that moment I sympathized. I should have felt the same had I been a dog; as it was-- I looked after the swiftly receding train, a bright beaded trailing line of black in the white night. The Doctor was opening the robes. "In with you, and then we can talk; there 's no wind to prevent." As soon as he was seated beside me and the horses' heads turned homewards, he began to chat in his cheery way, he asking, I answering the many questions; he telling of Delia Beaseley and his delight to be in Canada again, I inquiring, until we found ourselves passing through Richelieu-en-Bas. And during all the time I was listening to his merry chat and chaffing, to his kindly expressed interest in all that pertained to my small doings at the manor, I was hearing the on-coming thunder of the engine and those last words: "Take off your mitten--Good-by till Monday--thank you for coming."