The student began his musings again, modified by this girl's face. He had left out the feminine element; obviously he must recapitulate. He'd study law, yes; but that would not prevent going to sociables and church fairs. And at these fairs the chances were good for a meeting with a girl. Her father must be influential--county judge or district attorney. Marriage would open new avenues-- He was roused by the sound of his own name. "Is Albert Lohr in this car?" shouted the brakeman, coming in, enveloped in a cloud of fine snow. "Yes, here!" called Albert. "Here's a telegram for you." Albert snatched the envelope with a sudden fear of disaster at home; but it was dated "Tyre": "Get off at Tyre. I'll be there. "HARTLEY." "Well, now, that's fun!" said Albert, looking at the brakeman. "When do we reach there?" "About 2.20." "Well, by thunder! A pretty time o' night!" The brakeman grinned sympathetically. "Any answer?" he asked, at length. "No; that is, none that will do the matter justice." "Hartley friend o' yours?" "Yes; know him?" "Yes; he boarded where I did in Warsaw." When he came back again, the brakeman said to Albert, in a hesitating way: "Ain't going t' stop off long, I s'pose?" "May an' may not; depends on Hartley. Why?" "Well, I've got an aunt there that keeps boarders, and I kind o' like t' send her one when I can. If you should happen to stay a few days, go an' see her. She sets up first-class grub, an' it wouldn't kill anybody, anyhow, if you went up an' called." "Course not. If I stay long enough to make it pay I'll look her up sure. I'm no Vanderbilt. I can't afford to stop at two-dollar-a-day hotels." The brakeman sat down opposite, encouraged by Albert's smile. "Y' see, my division ends at Warsaw, and I run back and forth here every other day, but I don't get much chance to see them, and I ain't worth a cuss f'r letter-writin'. Y' see, she's only aunt by marriage, but I like her; an' I guess she's got about all she can stand up under, an' so I like t' help her a little when I can. The old man died owning nothing but the house, an' that left the old lady t' rustle f'r her livin'. Dummed if she ain't sandy as old Sand. They're gitt'n' along purty--" The whistle blew for brakes, and, seizing his lantern, the brakeman slammed out on the platform. "Tough night for twisting brakes," suggested Albert, when he came in again. "Yes--on the freight." "Good heavens! I should say so. They don't run freight such nights as this?" "Don't they? Well, I guess they don't stop for a storm like this if they's any money to be made by sending her through. Many's the night I've broke all night on top of the old wooden cars, when the wind was sharp enough to shear the hair off a cast-iron mule--_woo-o-o!_ There's where you need grit, old man," he ended, dropping into familiar speech. "Yes; or need a job awful bad."