Meantime the car had been filling up. Her luxurious turned seat had been unceremoniously returned, while she was too busy with her book even to frown. There come next a man with a child in his arms, and leading one by the hand; a commonly-dressed, jaded man; he looked about him right and left for a seat; vain hope; Elsie's was the only unoccupied one in the car. "May I sit here?" he asked meekly and prepared to seat himself, taking the other child on his knee, her small hand which was not of the cleanest coming in dangerous contact with Elsie's faultless bronze travelling suit. She saw it and twitched the skirt of her dress, not gently, away from the disagreeable member, muttering low as she did so, that the seat was "not intended for four persons." "Perhaps one hardly need to say that the kept hands will be very gentle hands." She did not repeat the words, but they repeated themselves to her, in a way that startled. Once more she looked down at her hands. Was He actually dishonored by that quick, irritable movement? The face of the man beside her looked troubled; he had seen the movement and had reached forth and clasped the offending little hand in his own rough one. He looked very careworn, and the smaller of the children, who was but a baby, began to utter wailing cries which he vainly tried to hush. Hopeless little cries they were; they went, someway, to Elsie's heart. She was sorry her hand had been so un-Christ-like in its movement. How could she atone for it? She reached forth for her lunch basket, and drawing therefrom a rosy-cheeked apple presented it to the little girl. The small soiled hand grasped after it eagerly, and the father smiled and leaned forward to admonish the child to thank the giver. "They both look very tired," Elsie said, gently; "travelling is hard for children." The man drew a heavy sigh. "It is hard for them," he said. "They miss their mother; they don't know what to make of it, and I don't know how to do for them as she would. I buried her last Tuesday." CHAPTER II. A DISMAYED exclamation from Elsie; then she added, "Poor little things!" in a tone that conveyed much to the sad father's heart. "You may well say that," he said, getting out his handkerchief hastily, to wipe the great tears that would gather in his eyes. "Two babies, you may say, with no one but a blundering father to do for them! I'm bound to do the very best I can, but what's a man worth when it comes to such work as that! And them crying for their mother every little while! This one," touching the head of the older child with gentle hand, "couldn't get herself to go to sleep, no how, last night. I patted her, and coaxed her for an hour; but she said she 'wanted mamma too bad for anything.'"