She looked, without knowing it, very young, very forlorn, and very frightened, and the hand in which she held the ticket given her by Justin trembled. She was morbidly afraid that this new person would question her as to the accident, about which she shrank from speaking; but after a while, encouraged by his silence, she tried to turn her thoughts by stealthily observing him. If her friend of the voice and hand of the night before had been only a tall blur in the darkness, the man beside her was effectively concrete. Neither tall nor large, he gave an impression of strength and vitality in the ease and quickness of his motions, which bespoke trained muscles. She decided that he was rather old—perhaps thirty. Dark-skinned, black-haired, with a thin face, a low forehead, deep-set eyes, a high, rather hooked nose, and a mustache, he was somewhat of the Oriental type, although, as she learned later, a New Englander by birth and heritage. Dosia was not quite sure whether the effect was pleasing or the reverse; there seemed to be something about him different from the other men she had seen, even in his clothing, although it was plain enough. Interspersed with these observations were the increasing throbs of homesickness that threatened to overwhelm her. Kind as Justin had been, she had felt all the time outside of his thought and affection. This new companion had shown consideration for her; she was grateful for it, but she was unprepared to have him lean suddenly toward her, as a tear trembled perilously on her lashes, and say, with twinkling eyes: “I beg your pardon, but do I look like him?” “Like—like whom?” asked Dosia, in amazement. “Like a person to be approved of.” “I haven’t considered the subject,” said Dosia, with swift dignity. “Ah, you see, it’s the reverse with me. As soon as Mrs. Alexander told me she was expecting you, my mind was filled with visions of a sweet young thing from the South. All sweet young things from the South have dreams; mine was to embody yours. And when I saw you, I said to myself—I beg your pardon, do you think I am getting too personal, on such short acquaintance?” “Yes,” answered Dosia, dimpling in spite of herself, “very much too personal.” She turned her head away from him, that she might not see those sparkling, quizzical eyes so close. “Very well; I will finish the sentence to-morrow, as you suggest. In the meantime, let me ask you if you have ever made a collection of conductors’ thumbs?” “No!” said Dosia, in astonishment, turning around again to face him. “I am told that there is a great deal of character in them; it is given by the broad, free movement of punching tickets. I have thought of collecting thumbs for purposes of study—in alcohol, of course. But why do you look so surprised?” “I am surprised that you have no collection already,” said Dosia, with spirit; “you seem to be so enterprising.”