The engine whistled as they approached the station, and Edna was hurried aboard the train, while her companion busied himself in transferring her box of clothing to the baggage car. She had insisted on taking her grandfather's dog with her, and, notwithstanding the horrified looks of the passengers and the scowl of the conductor, he followed her into the car and threw himself under the seat, glaring at all who passed, and looking as hideously savage as the Norse Managarmar. "You can't have a whole seat to yourself, and nobody wants to sit near that ugly brute," said the surly conductor. Edna glanced down the aisle, and saw two young gentlemen stretched at full length on separate seats, eyeing her curiously. Observing that the small seat next to the door was partially filled with the luggage of the parties who sat in front of it, she rose and called to the dog, saying to the conductor as she did so: "I will take that half of a seat yonder, where I shall be in nobody's way." Here Mr. Wood came forward, thrust her ticket into her fingers, and shook her hand warmly, saying hurriedly: "Hold on to your ticket, and don't put your head out of the window. I told the conductor he must look after you and your box when you left the cars; said he would. Good-by, Edna; take care of yourself, and may God bless you, child." The locomotive whistled, the train moved slowly on, and the miller hastened back to his cart. As the engine got fully under way, and dashed around a curve, the small, straggling village disappeared, trees and hills seemed to the orphan to fly past the window; and when she leaned out and looked back, only the mist-mantled rocks of Lookout, and the dim, purplish outline of the Sequatchie heights were familiar.