Julie opened her eyes, and looking in the direction of the voice saw Timothy Bixby for the first time. He was one seat ahead of her across the aisle so that she had a clear view of him, a meagre little man, fumbling anxiously through the contents of a suit-case, while a woman in the same seat, her head against a pillow, watched him angrily. It was the woman’s voice that had aroused Julie. “It _is_ there, too!” she repeated. “Oh, why in the name of common sense can’t you ever find anything? Here--get out of the way!” She shoved the man aside, and stooping an instant, fished in the suit-case, bringing to light a collapsible drinking-cup. “There! I told you it was there right along,” she announced, flouncing back into her seat. “Now for mercy sake get me that water, so’s I can take a tablet--my head’s just about to split open.” The little man took the cup in submissive silence and went forward to the water cooler. Julie watched him go down the aisle. He had sandy hair, and meek, rather drooping shoulders. His progress was zigzag, as he clutched the back of first one seat and then another, tossed from side to side by the speed of the train, which on a down grade now was making up lost time. When, after filling the cup, he turned about, she had a good view of him. He was about thirty years old, with a small spare frame, deprecatory movements, and an anxious frown between his blue eyes. He seemed to be trying desperately hard to cope with life, with a kind of worried patience. But life was against him. Halfway down the car, a small peripatetic child got in his way, and a lurch from the train made him spill the water over its frock. “Aw--oh!” he cried, a little ejaculation of dismay, and turned helplessly and unhappily to the mother. “I certainly am sorry, marm,” he apologized, while he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe the child’s frock. The mother paid no attention whatever to him, but snatching her child to her, removed the small spill of water as though her offspring had been marked by it for life. He repeated, “I’m mighty sorry,” and continued to stand helplessly by, but the woman would not give him even a glance of comfort or forgiveness, so after another uncertain moment he went back for fresh water. As he turned after refilling the cup and again came down the aisle, he was forced to meet the eyes of all the passengers. The small disaster had called momentary attention to him, marking him as it were with an exclamation point, and everybody was staring. The soldiers seized upon him as a butt for their wit. “Now then, George, steady! Whoa--up! Steady!” “Mind how you carry yer licker, son!” “Atta boy!”