Jim Bradley started as if a broken rail had suddenly confronted his engine on a curve, then he answered quietly: “Yes, uncle was. I’m not either, Randy, I’m a Roman Catholic. You see mother was out of Irish stock and she kept to her religion, and I, well, I held to it as long as she lived, and after because _it_ held to me. It’s a good religion for us knock-about men,” he added half-appealingly. “It never forgets you and it’s always there.” But Miranda sat silent and drooping, white to the lips. Jim Bradley looked at her and tried to give her time; he well knew from his early life just what his statement meant to this girl with the rigid ideas of the hill country; but because he understood, he would not say a word to force his creed upon her if she would do the same, and he told her so. Still she crouched on the bench and the only words that he could get from her were, “What would they all say?” and “Ma would never look at me again,” repeated over and over. Suddenly the instrument began a vigorous ticking. The woman started and, grasping the key, answered the sounds. “Anything for me?” asked Bradley, glad to move and break the spell that had fallen over both. “No—yes—wait a minute,” said the operator, with a puzzled expression on her face, looking at Bradley with eyes that seemed only half awake. “You are to go right on to Bridgeton and take further orders there.” Putting on coat and hat and turning up the wick of his lantern, Jim once more faced Randy, who stood with her hands clenched in the fringe of her long cape. “Well, it’s good-night for now,” he said cheerfully; then as her eyes met his he added, “Don’t say it’s good-by, girl; for God’s sake, think it over.” “It’s—it ought—it must be good-by,” she whispered; “but oh, Jim, I do care, care _so_ much; if only something stronger than either of us could decide and say it would be right.” “Good-night, Randy,” said Jim, and the swing of his lantern was answered by the train’s whistle. When it left the siding, Randy stood on the edge of the platform watching it go out over the trestles and gain speed on the level bit before the bridge, the red and green signal lights blinking at her like harlequin stars. Sweezy’s boy, who had gone into the hotel for shelter, emerged slowly and then disappeared in the barn to get the horse and sleigh. Still Randy lingered out on the platform end. The lights were disappearing around the curve and the village lay as silent and dead as if no railway pierced it, few houses showing any light. Suddenly three shrill whistles pierced the air, the signal for down brakes, followed swiftly by a splitting noise, a vibrating crash, and a roar that was muffled almost immediately.