Hymn and song came one upon the other, but the refreshment was for none but herself. Stuart Lynde caught once or twice a low, sweet strain, and looked about him to see whence it came, but the din of the cars drowned all but a stray, occasional note. Although he listened intently, the music did not rise above a soft murmur. By turning slightly in his seat, his eyes had the range of the car, and he was not long in determining the probable singer, more by the attitude than directed by any sounds. By the waning light he could see a slight figure in a sealskin sacque, a small brown velvet cap resting on a coil of brown hair. The face leaning on one hand was pressed close against the glass, and while her eyes watched the fading colors in the sky, her lips framed the words of song, as absently and unconsciously as if she had forgotten that she were not leaning from her own chamber window. It was a charming picture, and he enjoyed it. During the evening people dropped off at the different stations along the way, until only the few through passengers remained, who wearily counted the miles to the city where the sleeping coach should be attached. They were doomed to disappointment, however, for even while they were flying on at a high rate of speed, the train suddenly came to a stand still. A broken engine and a delay of several hours, was the word that quickly passed about. As if to add to the gloomy state of things, a severe storm had set in. The violet clouds that at sunset were lovely pictures, had grown into black, overhanging monsters. The wind howled and blew with a force that threatened to sweep all before it, and the rain fell in torrents. It was not a thing to be desired—standing in the midst of what seemed a boundless prairie, exposed to the fury of the storm, miles from any station, with telegraph wires down. It was curious how this changed state of affairs was met by different ones. Some who had been amiably dozing the last few hours were now thoroughly wide awake, going out and in, slamming doors and scolding the company because they did not provide engines that could not break down; others fretted, or were pale with fright, fearing lest the cars should be blown from the track, or there be a collision. Stuart Lynde wore a calm face; whether the calmness of stoicism, or of trust, who could tell? The old lady, who had learned patience through a long life of disappointments, was philosophical. "What can't be cured, must be endured," she remarked to Marian as she took off her bonnet and hung it up, brought out a hood in its place, and made other little preparations to spend the night just where she sat. To herself, she said, "I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me to dwell in safety.'" If only she had said those words aloud! Marian, too, took a text for her pillow, curled herself up comfortably in her seat, and went to sleep. "What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee," makes a soft pillow.