"Forgive me," he murmured. "I see it distresses you. Of course it is unpleasant to confide in an utter stranger. I will not ask you to tell me. I will try to think for you. Suppose we go to the station and get you a ticket to somewhere. Have you any preference? You can trust me not to tell any one where you have gone, can you not?" There was a kind rebuke in his tone, and her eyes, as she lifted them to his face, were full of tears. "Oh, I do trust you!" she cried, distressed "You must not think that, but--you do not understand." "Forgive me," he said again, holding out his hand in appeal. She laid her little gloved hand in his for an instant. "You are so kind!" she murmured, as if it were the only thing she could think of. Then she added suddenly: "But I cannot buy a ticket. I have no money with me, and I----" "Don't think of that for an instant. I will gladly supply your need. A little loan should not distress you." "But I do not know when I shall be able to repay it," she faltered, "unless"--she hastily drew off her glove and slipped a glittering ring from her finger--"unless you will let this pay for it. I do not like to trouble you so, but the stone is worth a good deal." "Indeed," he protested, "I couldn't think of taking your ring. Let me do this. It is such a small thing. I shall never miss it. Let it rest until you are out of your trouble, at least." "Please!" she insisted, holding out the ring. "I shall get right out of this carriage unless you do." "But perhaps some one gave you the ring, and you are attached to it." "My father," she answered briefly, "and he would want me to use it this way." She pressed the ring into his hand almost impatiently. His fingers closed over the jewel impulsively. Somehow, it thrilled him to hold the little thing, yet warm from her fingers. He had forgotten that she was a stranger. His mind was filled with the thought of how best to help her. "I will keep it until you want it again," he said kindly. "You need not do that, for I shall not claim it," she declared. "You are at liberty to sell it. I know it is worth a good deal." "I shall certainly keep it until I am sure you do not want it yourself," he repeated. "Now let us talk about this journey of yours. We are almost at the station. Have you any preference as to where you go? Have you friends to whom you could go?" She shook her head. "There are trains to New York every hour almost." "Oh, no!" she gasped in a frightened tone. "And to Washington often." "I should rather not go to Washington," she breathed again. "Pittsburg, Chicago?" he hazarded. "Chicago will do," she asserted with relief. Then the carriage stopped before the great station, ablaze with light and throbbing with life. Policemen strolled about, and trolley-cars twinkled in every direction. The girl shrank back into the shadows of the carriage for an instant, as if she feared to come out from the sheltering darkness. Her escort half defined her hesitation.