Two sleighs were just dashing up to the station, and from the foremost there sprang a young man muffled in furs. “Weymore?--No, these are not the Weymore sleighs.” The voice was that of the youth who had jumped to the platform--a voice so agreeable that, in spite of the words, it fell consolingly on Faxon’s ears. At the same moment the wandering station-lantern, casting a transient light on the speaker, showed his features to be in the pleasantest harmony with his voice. He was very fair and very young--hardly in the twenties, Faxon thought--but his face, though full of a morning freshness, was a trifle too thin and fine-drawn, as though a vivid spirit contended in him with a strain of physical weakness. Faxon was perhaps the quicker to notice such delicacies of balance because his own temperament hung on lightly quivering nerves, which yet, as he believed, would never quite swing him beyond a normal sensibility. “You expected a sleigh from Weymore?” the newcomer continued, standing beside Faxon like a slender column of fur. Mrs. Culme’s secretary explained his difficulty, and the other brushed it aside with a contemptuous “Oh, _Mrs. Culme!_” that carried both speakers a long way toward reciprocal understanding. “But then you must be--” The youth broke off with a smile of interrogation. “The new secretary? Yes. But apparently there are no notes to be answered this evening.” Faxon’s laugh deepened the sense of solidarity which had so promptly established itself between the two. His friend laughed also. “Mrs. Culme,” he explained, “was lunching at my uncle’s to-day, and she said you were due this evening. But seven hours is a long time for Mrs. Culme to remember anything.” “Well,” said Faxon philosophically, “I suppose that’s one of the reasons why she needs a secretary. And I’ve always the inn at Northridge,” he concluded. “Oh, but you haven’t, though! It burned down last week.” “The deuce it did!” said Faxon; but the humour of the situation struck him before its inconvenience. His life, for years past, had been mainly a succession of resigned adaptations, and he had learned, before dealing practically with his embarrassments, to extract from most of them a small tribute of amusement. “Oh, well, there’s sure to be somebody in the place who can put me up.” “No one _you_ could put up with. Besides, Northridge is three miles off, and our place--in the opposite direction--is a little nearer.” Through the darkness, Faxon saw his friend sketch a gesture of self-introduction. “My name’s Frank Rainer, and I’m staying with my uncle at Overdale. I’ve driven over to meet two friends of his, who are due in a few minutes from New York. If you don’t mind waiting till they arrive I’m sure Overdale can do you better than Northridge. We’re only down from town for a few days, but the house is always ready for a lot of people.”