“I remember you folks real well,” she said. “I was in your stage when you come on from Mammoth.” Irving glanced up, and as her words reached his abstracted consciousness, he looked suddenly interested. “You were with Miss Vincent, then,” he replied. “M’hm,” admitted Miss Hickey with elegant ease. “I seen her yesterday,” she added, as the young man did not press the matter. “She’s quit.” “You saw her yesterday?” he repeated eagerly. “How was she?” “Oh-_ho_!” ejaculated Miss Hickey, mentally. “You take notice, do you?” “Perter’n a chipmunk,” she returned aloud. “Say,” meeting Irving’s uplifted gaze, “is that gent with the bum ear, the deef gent, I mean,—is he on the level?” “Why—certainly. Did—did Miss Vincent—” “Yes, she did. She told me he was sendin’ her back. Say; do you know her?” “Yes, slightly.” “Then you know that she’d believe Satan if he smiled on her. I’d like to know that she’s in good hands. That’s what I’d like to know.” Irving Bruce smiled upon Miss Hickey, a bright light in his eyes. “Do you see the thin-faced lady over there, the one with the brown waist?” he asked. “Sure. The hatchet-faced one.” “Miss Vincent is in her hands,” said Irving; “and they’re the best hands in the world.” He rose. “Well, believe _me_, I’m glad to hear it,” was the hearty response. Irving smiled upon Rosalie’s friend again, and gave her a tip which not only supplied her with candy for weeks to come, but gave her food for thought as well. “Maybe I didn’t butt in just right!” she reflected. “Oh, he’s just grand! Good for Baby! I guess she’s goin’ some!” Betsy bided her time. She was sure that before the party reached Boston, Mr. Derwent would again open the subject of their mutual interest. Irving’s silence upon it awakened no suspicion in her faithful breast. She had assured him that all was well, and adjured him to trust her; and, his mind set at rest, the thought of Rosalie had slipped out of it, which, considering that he belonged to Mrs. Bruce, was the best thing that could happen. Betsy’s expectation was well-founded. One afternoon after their train had left Chicago, and there came a lull in the interminable games of bridge which had whiled the hours away, Mr. Derwent approached the seat where Betsy sat alone, viewing the flying landscape—flat but not unprofitable. “May I sit here a minute?” he asked. She gave him a one-sided smile of welcome. A veil was wrapped around her head in much the same fashion in which she wore a cheese-cloth on cleaning days at home. They talked for half an hour; the noise of the train increasing, as it always did, the ease of Mr. Derwent’s hearing. Mrs. Bruce glanced at them more than once, well pleased with the satisfied expression on her handmaid’s countenance. She addressed Mrs. Nixon. “What an extraordinarily kindly man your brother is!” she said. “The best in the world,” agreed Mrs. Nixon impressively.