“Tell me again exactly what I am to do. I don’t want to run any risk of missing you.” Catalina glanced over her shoulder. There was such a babble, both in the car and on the platform, that it would not be difficult to miss the singsong of the guard. The other train was still there. “Do not go to the town. It is miles from the station; there is sure to be an inn close by. If we don’t arrive to-morrow night, of course, you will have a telegram; in any case, don’t wait for us, but go on to Granada. You can amuse yourself there, and we are sure to turn up sooner or later. Have you that list of Spanish words I wrote out?” He looked forlorn and homesick, and Catalina laughed outright. “Better go straight to Granada,” she said. “Viajeros al tren!” “Take my place—quick!” whispered Catalina. She let herself down on the other side, dragged her heavy bag after her, and ran. She had a confused idea that the northern train was closer than it had been, but did not pause until she came to the first-class carriages. Then she saw that the train was empty. At the same instant she heard a whistle, and glancing distractedly up the track saw a train gliding far ahead. There was not a moment to be lost. It was the guard of the southern train that had sounded his warning cry, and she ran back, dragging the heavy portmanteau—it held the day’s lunch, among other things—and almost in tears. It had been an exciting morning, and she had slept little the night before. She stopped and gasped. The train was moving—slowly, it is true, but far too rapidly for a person on the wrong side with a heavy piece of luggage. She dropped the portmanteau and, drawing a long breath, called with all the might of lungs long accustomed to the ranch cry: “Captain Over! Captain Over!” The door of a carriage was opened instantly. Over took in the situation at a glance, leaped to the ground and ran towards her, caught up the portmanteau, and, regaining his compartment, flung it within. Catalina followed it with the agility of a cat, and in another moment they were panting opposite each other. Catalina fanned herself with her hat; she would not speak until she could command her voice. “How was any one to know they would run another train between?” she said, finally. “Poor Cousin Lyman! He must be frantic. Cousin Miranda, no doubt, is delighted. It is my fault, of course—no, it is yours; you should not have engaged me in conversation at the critical moment.” “I will take the blame—and the best of care of you, besides.”