Elithe did not reply, and he went on: “I know your aunt, Miss Phebe Hansford,—have known her for years. We are great friends. She told me you were coming about this time. We must have been on the same train part of the way. I didn’t see you. Funny, too, as I went through all the sleepers looking for some one I thought might be there.” “I wasn’t in a sleeper. I came in a common car, and it was so hot!” Elithe said. “You don’t mean you came all the way from Montana in a common car!” Paul exclaimed, and Elithe replied: “Yes, I do,” in a weary kind of way, which struck Paul with an intense pity for her. “Great Scott! What made you do that? I wonder you are alive. Why did they let you?” he said, impulsively, his voice indicating that somebody was to blame. Elithe detected this and rejoined, quickly: “Nobody wanted me to. I did it myself, because——.” She stopped abruptly, for she could not explain that the money saved was to buy Artie some long stockings, Thede some shoes, and her mother a summer dress. Paul could not read her thoughts, but he was shrewd enough to guess that economy was the reason why the common car was taken instead of the sleeper, and he felt an increased pity for her, as he frequently felt for people who had not all the money they wanted to spend. Thinking to change the conversation, he said: “I was down below, where the trunks are stored, and saw one with your name on it. I knew then you must be on board and hunted till I found you.” At the mention of her trunk Elithe flushed, feeling in a moment the wide gulf between her trunk and herself and this elegant young man, so different from any one she had ever seen before, unless it were Mr. Pennington, of whom, in some respects, he reminded her. They probably belonged to the same grade of society, with, however, this difference: Paul Ralston had never fought blue demons in the mining camp of Deep Gulch, and on his face there were no signs of the fast life which always leaves its impress. That he was greatly her superior, she was sure, and as his eyes wandered over her from her shabby boots to her shabbier hat, she began to be painfully conscious of her personal appearance, and to wonder what he thought of her. Evidently he was expecting her to speak, and she said at last: “You saw my name on my trunk, but how did you know me?” He would not tell her that there was something about her which made him think that she and the queer trunk belonged to each other, and he said what was partly true, “Your aunt has your photograph, which I have seen, and I recognized you by that, although you were so pale that I was not quite sure until you opened your eyes; then I knew. There was no mistaking your eyes.”