But Norman de Vere’s handsome face had assumed a rather rueful expression when he looked over and saw the pretty sleeper. “Presently it will wake up and squall. Then I shall beat a retreat into the smoking-car. The drummers could be no worse,” thought he, testily. But pending the meditated retreat he fell to speculating over these chance companions of his railway ride. “Some poor little widow who has buried her husband among strangers and is going home to her people with her little child,” he decided from her garb of somber black. And as men always take a peculiar interest in young and pretty widows, our hero began to wish that she would turn her head and let him see her face. That she was young he felt quite sure from her erect shoulders and slight and delicate shape. But the young widow remained motionless, with her cheek in her hand and her head turned toward the window, seemingly intent on the flitting landscape, with its dreary dead-level clothed with forests of pine, cedar, and cypress, while here and there the glittering leaves and magnificent white flowers of the magnolia-tree divided admiration with the long, swaying wreaths of funereal-looking moss somberly draping the great live-oaks. Perhaps the tropical growth lying under the soft, velvety drizzle of a steady October rain pleased her fancy or held her interest, or perhaps hot, silent tears were falling under the little black veil, for she never stirred from her statue-like quiet even when the door opened noisily presently, admitting the jolly commercial travelers whose loud talk and laughter immediately startled the smiling baby sleeper from her dreams. There was a low, startled whimper of fear, and the little darling sat erect, first digging dimpled, chubby fists into her eyes, then staring at the heartless disturbers of her dreams with the brightest, bluest, most reproachful orbs they had ever seen. “She is going to squall! The widow will have to move at last!” Norman de Vere muttered, with triumphant curiosity. He was right, and wrong. The baby did not squall, but the lady moved. She leaned forward, patted the child with her little gloved hand, murmured some low, soothing words, and immediately returned to her musing position at the window without any one ever having seen her face. The travelers were staring with all their might. Every heart went out to the little angel in the white dress. One of them--rough fellow and hard drinker as his red face showed him to be--had pretty little children of his own at home. He uttered a caressing sound and held out eager arms.