The crowd of people had confused and bewildered Reinette, and, for an instant she had thought of nothing but the box which was being lifted from the car, and which Pierre, half crazed himself, was superintending, while he jabbered first his unintelligible French, and then his scarcely more intelligible English. But when the box was carefully put down and the train had started, she threw rapid glances around her in quest of the only one on whom she felt she had any claim, Mr. Beresford, her father’s friend and agent who was looking at her, curiously, and thinking at first that though very stylish she certainly was not handsome. But when, in their rapid sweep, the dark eyes fell upon him and seemed to rest there inquiringly he began to change his mind; and as the Ferguson party were evidently waiting for him to make the first advance, and Phil was not there, he walked up to her, and offering her his hand, said, in his well-bred, gentlemanly way. “Miss Hetherton, I believe?” In Reinette’s mind Mr. Beresford had always seemed a gray-haired, middle-aged man, as old or older than her father, and she had no idea that this young, good-looking stranger, with the handsome teeth and pleasant smile and voice, was he; so she withheld her hand from his offered one, and stepping back a little, said in perfect English, but with a very pretty foreign accent: “I am looking for Mr. Beresford, please; do you know him?—is he here?” It was such a sweet, musical voice, and had in it something so timid and appealing that Mr. Beresford felt his pulses quicken as they had never done before. “I am Mr. Beresford,” he replied, and the lightning glance which the bright eyes flashed into his face almost blinded him, for Reinette’s eyes were wonderful for their brilliancy and continually varying expression, and few men ever stood unmoved before them. “Mr. Arthur Beresford? Are you Mr. Arthur, father’s friend?” she asked: “Yes, Mr. Arthur, your father’s friend,” and again his hand was extended toward her. Reinette had kept up her composure ever since the moment when she knew her father was dead, and had even tried to seem cheerful on the train and had talked of the places they were passing to some people who had been on the Russia with her, and were on their way to their home in Boston, but at sight of Mr. Beresford, her father’s friend, whom she was to trust with everything, her forced calmness gave way, and she broke down entirely. Taking both his hands in hers, she bent her face over them and sobbed like a little child.