Mr. Lynde resolved that he would not waste his time in sleep. It was a good quiet time for thought. So he revolved in his mind the chief points in an important law case, wishing he were entirely alone, so that he might speak aloud the words of the plea, rushing to his brain, which he expected to make on the morrow, or did expect to—probably this miserable detention would spoil all his plans, at which he groaned inwardly. He was scarcely aware that another process was going on in his mind at the same time; that he was casting occasional glances at the face of the sleeper nearly opposite, and comparing it with a certain piece of statuary which was a favorite. Although strangers were distasteful to him, he was fond of tracing different types of faces, and this fair Grecian profile, outlined against the cushions, with closed eyes and rounded cheek, was a pleasant study. The hand put up to shade the face had slept at its post, and had fallen down and folded itself over the other one across the chest. The childlike mouth looked as if the lips had closed themselves on,—"I will trust." It was a calm, sweet picture of innocent sleep, and Stuart Lynde found himself thinking as he gazed, "If only a soul ever matched a fair face!" If she had but known, how quickly the blood would have rushed into the cheek, and the statue would have sprung up and away! Marian was not a girl to pose for stranger eyes, nor any other. It was a little singular that a connoisseur of faces should bestow all his attention upon one, and not have noticed just beyond, the fine old face crowned with snowy hair, and radiant with calm content. The old lady, between her naps, watched the sleeper, too, feeling a sort of motherly responsibility concerning her, because she was alone. "Dear lamb," she murmured to herself, "she is taking a good sleep." Marian kept some vigils, too. She straightened herself up after a few hours, wondering vaguely where she was, and why the train was standing still. The ghostly light, the silence and the rough men in a seat not far away—one of them—an evil-faced fellow, happening to glare at her just then, filled her with shudderings. She glanced swiftly over to a certain seat to see if it had changed occupants. It had not, and she felt relieved. The man who sat there might be cold and proud, but he was honorable and chivalrous; he could defend a whole car full of people, she was sure. Then there was the old lady beaming out even in the gloom and darkness, as she just now roused up, saying, "How are you getting on, my dear?" There was a world of comfort in that "my dear."