The woman looked long at the lovely face surrounded with the auburn hair, and wondered what made it wear such a sad expression. To the poor widow in her rusty black Meg looked as if she had much of this world's goods. Her dress was made of an expensive tweed, though it was plain and neat; and the boots below it were of good leather and were a pretty shape. What could such a girl have to make her sad? The woman looked down at her own black dress worn in memory of her husband who had died three years before, comparing her lot with that of the girl with closed eyes in the corner, and could not but wonder how it was that apparently she, a widow, and with a child to support, was happier than this well-dressed young lady. Presently, as her little boy brushed unceremoniously past Meg, causing her to open her eyes, the woman ventured on a remark. "I hope my little boy don't annoy you, Miss," she said. "He do get so restless travelling. I can't keep him quiet no how." "I don't mind him," said Meg wearily. "Have you come far?" "Just the other side of Elminster. I've been to see my father and mother," she added. "I've not seen them for six years and of course they've never seen my boy. May I make so bold Miss as to ask if you're going all the way to London?" "Yes. I'm going to London," said Meg. "What kind of a place is it? I've never been there." "You don't say so!" exclaimed the woman. "Why I've lived in London ever since I first went to service. I expect you'll have a good time. There's no end to see, what with pictures and cinemas and the like. I expect you've friends coming to meet you at the station, Miss." "No. I've no one coming," said Meg. The woman looked at her. "I'm afraid you're in trouble," she said softly, for Meg had closed her eyes and was again leaning her head against the back of the carriage. Meg did not answer at first but kept her head turned away from her questioner. "I know what trouble is," said the woman. "I lost my husband three years ago, and my little girl ten days after him. I didn't think I'd ever get over it; but God helped me through." "But you've got a father and mother," said Meg, turning dreary eyes towards her. "I've no one." "To think of that!" ejaculated the woman. "Poor dear! Have you lost them all?" "Yes," said Meg. "All dead?" "No. They are none of them dead. But they are as good as dead to me." "Have you gone and done something very bad my dear?" asked the woman with concern. "No. But I've lost them all. And I've not a friend in the world that cares whether I'm dead or alive." "Come, come," expostulated the woman, "I'm sure you're making a mistake. You're running away from them all I'll be bound. A young lady like you isn't likely to have no friends. Take my word for it your friends are all longing for you to go back to them."