When they reached Staunton, quite a large crowd came in, and there was another conductor, who had so many tickets to take up that he did not pay much attention to the sad young traveler who seemed so lonely and friendless, and who at last fell into a deep sleep of exhaustion, and did not awaken for many hours afterward--not, in fact, until a terrible railroad collision near Louisville, Kentucky, derailed the train and sent many of the passengers into their last long sleep. Pansy was rudely awakened by the shock and jar, and found herself fastened down beneath some timbers which had, fortunately, formed a sort of arch over her form, holding her down, yet still protecting her, so that she was quite unhurt, although so frightened that she fainted dead away at hearing the shrieks of the wounded and dying all around her. Busy, helpful hands were soon at work, and within an hour she was released from her uncomfortable position. They carried her out into a grassy field, where the survivors of the accident were sitting around in the burning sunshine. Pansy was struck by one lady, who looked as if she were far gone in consumption, and who was sobbing bitterly over the death of her maid. “I was quite alone but for her, and we were traveling to California for my health,” she said. “Oh, I know not what to do! I am too weak and ill to travel alone.” Pansy went up to the poor invalid, and said timidly: “Lady, I am an orphan, and I was going to Cincinnati to seek for work. Perhaps you would be willing to take me in the place of your maid that was killed. I would try very hard to please you.” “Oh, thank you, thank you, my child! I am only too glad to get some one to go on with me,” cried the invalid, eagerly accepting the offer. CHAPTER XI. SHELTERING ARMS. Pansy Laurens had found that “friend in need” who is “a friend, indeed,” when she became acquainted with Mrs. Beach, the invalid lady. She took a deep, kindly interest in the lonely, friendless girl, and during the few days when they stayed over at Louisville to recover from the shock of the accident mastered much of her story. She was surprised when she learned that the lovely girl was of the working classes, for she had fancied that Pansy’s wonderful beauty had descended from aristocratic, high-bred parentage, but Pansy proudly undeceived her. “My father was a mechanic, and my grandfather was a farmer. My mother was a farmer’s daughter, too, so we were only plain, hard-working people. I left the public school where I was educated as soon as my father died, and worked in a tobacco factory three years.” Mrs. Beach, who was a Southerner, and “a born aristocrat,” looked honestly surprised, and spoke out frankly her astonishment. “I thought,” she said, “that the girls employed in the tobacco factories of the South were of a very low and ignorant class, indeed. I have received that impression somehow.”