They were in a crowd of people, hurrying off the trains. Miss Witherspoon had seized upon a porter to whom she had given her luggage, and, on turning around, had found that her companion had extravagantly engaged another. The young girl murmured an unintelligible reply and her chaperon, intent upon getting a taxi, hurried on ahead. "Let's not walk so fast," Hertha said to her boy, who answered, smiling, "Reckon you're from the South." "Reckon I am," was the reply. "Your friend's getting away from us!" he announced after they had moved slowly down the platform. "I want her to." Meanwhile Miss Witherspoon, reaching a taxi, had her luggage settled in it and then looked back for her charge, who was nowhere to be seen. Nervous, yet sure that Hertha would appear in a moment, she stood by her cab, refusing to get inside. "I got ter go," cried the chauffeur. "I've got to wait," said Miss Witherspoon emphatically, "until my companion comes." Without a word the man drove off to take his stand in the rear of the line while another taxi swept up, gathered in a group of travelers, and went on. "How provoking," Miss Witherspoon cried. She was separated from her luggage and from Hertha. Never was anything so stupid. Suddenly some one spoke at her elbow. "The young lady asked me to give you this." It was Hertha's porter, holding out a note. Miss Witherspoon opened it and read the few words written in the girl's careful hand. "Thank you so much for your kindness, but I have decided to stay in New York. I think I shall prefer to be where no one knows anything about me. I'm sorry I put you to so much trouble." And below, written more hurriedly: "Don't worry over me, and thank you again." "Where did she go?" Miss Witherspoon asked the boy, who was watching her with interest. "I don't know," he answered, "I put her on a street car." "Here's your taxi again," called out the starter. Miss Witherspoon was startled and indignant. She looked about as though hoping by some miracle Hertha would appear at her side. Then, appreciating the futility of attempting any search, she got into the taxi with her bags and, chagrined and disappointed, was driven through the crowded streets. "What shall I say to them in Boston?" she asked herself. II KATHLEEN CHAPTER XIII Noise! Thundering, reverberating noise. Noise that never ceases, noise that deadens the brain and makes the hand jerk in response to the jarred nerves; always, day and night, throughout the length of the city streets, the clamor of inanimate things.