“You sure did hol’ de fort, Miss,” Ferd insisted on saying. “The gent-men had to go without their smoke this morning.” Too embarrassed for further conversation the girls stole out of the usurped room. Just at the little turn in the aisle, the very narrow place where a crowd is always trying to squeeze by at once, they encountered a group of would-be smokers ready to defend their rights. They were talking none too meekly, and seeing the girl still in negligee one had the poor taste to remark: “There she is. Some sleeper!” Judith blushed to the roots of her dark hair, but Jane glanced at the bounder defiantly. Didn’t he have manners enough to respect a girl who was just absent minded? “A good thing they had to—fast a little,” Jane whispered in Judith’s ear. “It won’t hurt them any. They smoke enough now to fumigate the car with the fumes they carry out of that room. Pretty room, isn’t it?” She smiled to give back Judith’s assurance. “Oh, I am so embarrassed,” murmured Judith. “And have I actually been sleeping there, and keeping that raft of men outside?” “Oh, yes, dear, but that is nothing to worry about,” the kind-hearted Jane protested. “In war times they had to go without smoking or should have. Now they can’t seem to live a moment on the train, without the company of their cigars. Do let us hurry in to breakfast!” But even the reliable good nature and love of humor, characteristic of Judith was some time in returning to the very much embarrassed girl. CHAPTER VIII—NEW YORK AT LAST “If there is one thing I like more than all the other things about a long railway journey,” said Judith, as they alighted at the great Metropolis terminal, “it is the end. I love to get off.” “I rather agree with you,” Jane almost sighed, for the trip from Montana, while pleasantly varied with incidents of interest, was really all tuned and keyed up to the actual pleasure of reaching New York. “How good it is to be back, after all,” pursued Judith. “I hope we will have no trouble in finding Mrs. Weatherbee. She is so eminently systematic, as our train was on time, she ought to be in sight now.” “Oh, I am sure she will be here,” Jane added, as they edged along with the throng, threading their way out into the open space under the great glass canopy of the New York Central. The magnitude of the building seemed to dwarf the lines and group of persons, filing in and out, and coming and going—as the old man said, like people without any homes. “There she is!” exclaimed Jane as she caught sight of the dignified Mrs. Weatherbee, director of Wellington. “And she has a young girl with her.” “Our Helka!” exclaimed Judith, jamming into a haughty woman with the perpetual poodle under her arm. “Oh, I am sure that is our little artist,” as the slight young girl, in very dark costume advanced with Mrs. Weatherbee.