She gave a violent start, and stared fixedly at the handsome head and broad shoulders a few seats ahead. Could it be? Or was she dreaming? Surely those outlines were too familiar for her to be mistaken. It was _he_! She saw him lean forward to answer the women in the next seat. The outline of his handsome profile was clear for a moment. She fell back almost stunned, secretly railing at her ill fortune. Janetta, the maid, leaned forward from the back seat. “Do you wish anything, madame? You seem ill.” She whispered back: “Who are those people in front of us there?” “Some people from your own town, madame; a Mrs. Flint, her brother, and her servant. The lady has been sick, and I heard the conductor telling some one back there that they were going South for her health.” “Ah!” and Mrs. Varian shut her eyes and relapsed into pallor and silence again. Janetta, good, faithful soul, watched her uneasily, feeling she was not well. She was inwardly ill indeed--raging at the trick fate had played on her this day. “To endure this thirty-six hours--the sight of him whenever I open my eyes--it is impossible!” she said to herself, in a sort of blank terror. Janetta touched her gently, whispering: “You are very pale--I hope not ill.” She could fancy that she was ghastly to evoke this anxiety, so she answered: “I do not feel quite my usual self. I am thinking of not going on to-night any further than Charlottesville, and resuming our journey to-morrow, if I am better.” “Perhaps that is the better plan,” the maid returned, respectfully, though secretly rather disappointed at delaying the journey. But she was used to her mistress and her capricious notions. She had simply to obey. So when they reached the university town a little further on, the mistress and maid left the train, to the great relief of Everard Dawn, who thought: “I was right. She is _en route_ for Washington. She will board the Northern train at this point. But how lonely it seemed, just the two women traveling together. I remember she used to be one of those dependent women, always preferring a man’s escort. Arthur ought to be with her now, poor Paulina!” Mrs. Flint exclaimed: “Was not that Mrs. Varian leaving the train?” “I believe so,” he replied, carelessly; and then the brief wait at the station being over, the train rushed on into the deep gloom of twilight. It was scarcely a mile further on that, lying back with shut eyes and confused thoughts that mostly centered around the lonely figure of the woman just gone, he was roused by a terrible roar, a jumble of horrible sound, movement, and stifled shrieks of fear and pain, then consciousness gave way, and he lay still and death-like under the _débris_ of a dreadful railway wreck--a collision caused by the misplacing of a switch. * * * * * Mrs. Varian revived out in the cold evening air, and she congratulated herself on her lucky escape, as she and Janetta sought the nearest hotel.