I do not know whether the man understood her words, but he understood the touch of the hand she thrust into his, and the kindness of the other hand that stroked his shabby sleeve. She pulled him gently towards the inmost sanctuary of the Station Master. The other children followed, and the Station Master shut the door in the face of the crowd, which stood a little while in the booking office talking and looking at the fast closed yellow door, and then by ones and twos went its way, grumbling. Inside the Station Master's room Bobbie still held the stranger's hand and stroked his sleeve. “Here's a go,” said the Station Master; “no ticket--doesn't even know where he wants to go. I'm not sure now but what I ought to send for the police.” “Oh, DON'T!” all the children pleaded at once. And suddenly Bobbie got between the others and the stranger, for she had seen that he was crying. By a most unusual piece of good fortune she had a handkerchief in her pocket. By a still more uncommon accident the handkerchief was moderately clean. Standing in front of the stranger, she got out the handkerchief and passed it to him so that the others did not see. “Wait till Mother comes,” Phyllis was saying; “she does speak French beautifully. You'd just love to hear her.” “I'm sure he hasn't done anything like you're sent to prison for,” said Peter. “Looks like without visible means to me,” said the Station Master. “Well, I don't mind giving him the benefit of the doubt till your Mamma comes. I SHOULD like to know what nation's got the credit of HIM, that I should.” Then Peter had an idea. He pulled an envelope out of his pocket, and showed that it was half full of foreign stamps. “Look here,” he said, “let's show him these--” Bobbie looked and saw that the stranger had dried his eyes with her handkerchief. So she said: “All right.” They showed him an Italian stamp, and pointed from him to it and back again, and made signs of question with their eyebrows. He shook his head. Then they showed him a Norwegian stamp--the common blue kind it was--and again he signed No. Then they showed him a Spanish one, and at that he took the envelope from Peter's hand and searched among the stamps with a hand that trembled. The hand that he reached out at last, with a gesture as of one answering a question, contained a RUSSIAN stamp. “He's Russian,” cried Peter, “or else he's like 'the man who was'--in Kipling, you know.” The train from Maidbridge was signalled. “I'll stay with him till you bring Mother in,” said Bobbie. “You're not afraid, Missie?” “Oh, no,” said Bobbie, looking at the stranger, as she might have looked at a strange dog of doubtful temper. “You wouldn't hurt me, would you?”