As our train started from the station it plunged into a heavy, blinding snow-storm that had been raging throughout the entire day. Once in our seats, Martin recommenced his tirades against this “foolishness.” But there were propitious signs near at hand, for his encouragement. A man was coming down the aisle looking for a seat in whom I recognized a Seminary comrade of mine. He was a stubby fellow of middle age, with an ill-kept, drooping moustache. “Say, Harlan, old fellow,” I greeted, “stop right here and meet my cousin.” When he was seated, I talked with him, and, for Martin’s benefit, to whom I slyly winked as I talked, brought out the fact that Harlan had been much older than my cousin when he had started out for an education. Nay, he had been handicapped with a wife and a child! Now he enjoyed the dignity of the ministerial profession. The moral was evident to Martin. He braced up and became very agreeable, especially to my old friend Harlan. We talked in low tones until three o’clock in the morning, at which time the brakeman called out the station where I should leave Martin to his fortunes. The poor fellow seemed on the verge of tears as he gripped his suit-case and followed me to the door as the train slacked up its speed. I looked off from the platform. The storm had not abated. I could see only a great snowdrift where the station platform should have been. A street light flickered weakly out on the street. As Martin dropped up to his knees in the snowdrift and reached for his suit-case I whispered: “Find a hotel, and let me hear from you, old fellow. Keep up your courage. If there’s anything I can do, call on me!” Harlan waved his hand and called, “Never too late to mend!” an aphorism which might have been pertinent to the occasion, and then the brakeman’s lantern swung. As the train lumbered through the drifts, I saw Martin bend his head to the storm, lift his suit-case above the drifts, and go plodding towards the street light. The station was deserted, and I hoped that my cousin would find some one to direct him before the storm discouraged him. A few months later, I stopped off at the town where I had left my cousin. He met me at the train, the same serious man I had left, though with a trace of a smile on his face and more of content in his speech than before. He guided me past a grocery store and said: “I get up at four in the morning, do my studying, then before classes I go out and take orders for that firm.” He led me down a placid street, through the shovelled paths of snow, and after opening the front door led me into a well-warmed and very nicely furnished chamber. “I do their chores and earn the rent for this room,” he announced, with a grim smile. “Furnace to look after, paths to shovel, and baby to keep happy, if it wakens when they want to go to an entertainment.” At supper time he led me into the heart of the town into an eating-house. He had a meal ticket punched by the waitress.