"And our trunks--they are checked through to Valley City. Will there be time to take them off?" said Jeanne-Armande, confusedly. Then, with more clearness, "But why should we go at all? I have no money to spend on freaks." [Illustration: "IT IS, OR SHOULD BE, OVER THERE."] "This is Stringhampton Junction; we can cross here to the northern road, as you originally intended," explained Anne, rapidly. "All the additional expense I will pay. Dear mademoiselle, have pity on me, and come. Else I shall go alone." The voice was eloquent; Jeanne-Armande rose. Anne hurried her through the almost empty car toward the rear door. "But where _are_ we going?" "Out of the light," answered Anne. They climbed down in the darkness on the other side of the train, and Anne led the way across the tracks at random, until they reached a safe country road-side beyond, and felt the soft grass under their feet. "Where _are_ we going?" said the Frenchwoman again, almost in tears. "Monsieur Heathcote--what will he think of us?" "It is from him I am fleeing," replied Anne. "And now we must find the cross-road train. Do you know where it is?" "It is, or should be, over there," said Jeanne-Armande, waving her umbrella tragically. But she followed: the young girl had turned leader now. They found the cross-road train, entered, and took their seats. And then Anne feverishly counted the seconds, expecting with each one to see Heathcote's face at the door. But the little branch train did not wait for supper; the few passengers were already in their places, and at last the bell rang, and the engine started northward, but so slowly that Anne found herself leaning forward, as though to hasten its speed. Then the wheels began to turn more rapidly--clank, clank, past the switches; rumble, rumble, over the bridge; by the dark line of the wood-pile; and then onward into the dark defiles of the mountains. They were away. CHAPTER XXI. "How heavy do I journey on the way When what I seek, my weary travel's end, Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, 'Thus far the miles are measured from my friend.'" --_Shakspeare's Sonnets._ In the mean time Ward Heathcote was in the supper-room. After selecting the best that the little country station afforded, and feeing a servant to take it across to the train, he sat down to eat a nondescript meal with some hunger. The intelligent mulatto boy who carried the waiter consumed as many minutes as possible in his search for "the two ladies in that car, on the right-hand side opposite the fourth window," who, plainly, were not there. He had the fee in his pocket, there would not be another, and the two "suppers" were paid for. It was decidedly a case for delay. He waited, therefore, until the warning bell rang, and he was then encountered in hot haste hurrying to meet his patron, the waiter still balanced on his shoulder. "No ladies there, sah. Looked everywhere fur 'em, sah."