Here the train stopped, and people began to leave their seats. “What are they going out for?” inquired Owlet. “To get something to eat. Shall I go and fetch you some cake and some sweet wine?” “Oh, yes, do! I am awful hungry! My stomach’s gone to my backbone. I’m as hollow as—as anything.” Hanson went out and crossed to the refreshment room, and soon returned with a paper bag of cakes and a glass of sweet wine. “Here,” he said, “drink the wine first, because I must take the glass back to the room. You can eat your cake while I am getting something for myself.” “All right,” said Owlet. “Don’t let me keep you.” Hanson returned to the refreshment room, made as good a meal as he could under the circumstances, and came back to his seat just an instant before the train started. Owlet had finished her lunch, and, being a tidy little old party, she had gathered up the crumbs, put them in the paper bag, and thrown them out of the window. “How do you feel?” inquired Hanson, looking at her attentively. “So good,” murmured Owlet, raising her heavy eyelids for an instant and then letting them fall over the great, somber eyes as she sank back in her corner with a sigh of profound satisfaction. The next moment she was fast asleep. The sun was low in the west, and as their compartment was at the back of the car the level rays struck in through the window and shone upon the child’s head, seeming to kindle sparks in her golden brown hair. The train was rushing eastward with fearful speed, but the motion only seemed to deepen the sleeper’s slumber. Hanson lifted her from the corner and laid her on the sofa, arranged her comfortably, covered her, and tucked her in, and then drew down the blind to shade her face. “She will give no more trouble to-night,” he said as he sat back in his seat and lighted a cigar, for it was now too dark to read with the curtains drawn. The sun set, and the porter came in to light the lamp. The flash failed to wake the sleeping child; yet, as a precaution, Hanson drew out his pocket handkerchief and spread it over her face. Then he took his newspaper and resumed his reading. The porter left the compartment. The sleeper slept on, and on, and on, through every stoppage and every start of the train, until it reached Philadelphia and ran into the lighted station. She was so still that Hanson grew uneasy again, feeling that he was playing a dangerous game with this child, that might affect his life as well as her own. He felt her pulse, but found it perfectly normal. He lifted and turned her over, with her face away from the light. She drew a deep sigh of relief, as if refreshed by the change of position, and then sank into still deeper slumber. Hanson left the train and went into the restaurant, where he made a very satisfactory, if rather late, dinner. He took his seat in his compartment just as the train was about to start. The child seemed sleeping well.