The Ouray train had been unable to reach its destination and had also backed down to Montrose again. McGuire had given Bowen orders to keep out of his train, and Jack was hurt. He had secured a guitar, a man who could play it, some railway employees who thought they could sing, and just as the old gentleman was entering the smoking-room, Jack and his mirth-makers paused beneath Miss Landon’s window. Jack had instructed them to sing “Patsy Git Up From the Fire,” and to begin with the chorus. The heart of the handsome conductor beat wildly when he found himself alone with the charming girl. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, for the excitement of the afternoon had left her feverish. Her deep blue eyes shed a softer light as she lounged upon the little divan amid the Pullman pillows. Realizing that her duty was now that of hostess in her own drawing-room, Miss Landon was about to break the embarrassing silence that was filling the place, but at that moment Camdel, the red-haired soprano, touched the guitar and opened up with a mirth-provoking Irish accent:-- “Arrah, Patsy! git up f’om th’ fire, An’ guv th’ mon a sate; Can’t ye see that it’s Misther McGuire, Come a courtin’ yer sisther Kate?” By the time the singers had concluded the chorus McGuire was on his feet, his face changing from red to white. “Sit down,” said Miss Landon, blushing, but smiling in spite of herself. “I did not know you had a bard among you capable of making songs upon occasion,” she added; “please don’t disturb them.” McGuire threw himself upon the seat and bit his lip. If only he could get hold of Jack Bowen he’d break his long back. After what seemed an age to McGuire the song ceased. “I think that is perfectly wonderful,” said Miss Landon enthusiastically, “and how nicely the singing sounds out there in the clear, cold night. They must have made that song since we came back from the hills; and the music, where did they get the tune? Did that funny Mr. Bowen make that too?” “That man couldn’t make a mud pie; he can’t whistle a tune; he can’t even tell the truth,” said the conductor of No. 8, indignantly. “Oh, Mr. McGuire,” said the young lady, with a pretty show of surprise. “Well, it’s true. I’m ashamed to say so, but it’s true; you must not believe a word he says.” “Not one word?” “Never. I don’t see how he made his wife believe he loved her.” “Is he married, then?” “Oh, yes. He’s as gentle as a nun and as harmless as a child, only don’t believe him. He lies just for the love of it, and never to injure any one. He ought to leave the road and devote himself to literature; he likes romancing. He calls his harmless bits of fiction ‘Novels Out of Print.’” “He certainly has a ready and vivid imagination.” Miss Landon sighed lightly. McGuire was handsome, and he had held her in his arms. “Please take off that horrid woolly coat,” said Miss Landon, with a little shudder.