“But I haven’t any money either.” By this time every eye in the car was attracted to the pair, for the conductor began to harangue her indignantly. Then Eva’s big dark eyes fairly scorched him as she answered angrily: “You are no gentleman, accusing me of dishonesty, before you give me time to explain. I didn’t mean to cheat the railroad company. I was only traveling on credit, and my grandfather, that I am going to see, will send to the station at Clarksburg and pay you to-morrow.” Everybody in the car tittered audibly at her ignorance--all but the New Yorker, who turned in his seat with a sympathetic glance at the lovely crimson face and flashing dark eyes. “But--but really, miss, it’s not the company’s rule to give credit on fares. Pay as you go is our motto. And really, now, you see, I don’t know your grandfather from Adam!” sputtered the annoyed conductor. “You don’t? Why, everybody in Harrison county knows old Mr. Groves, of Stony Ledge, and would trust him, too, to pay any debts. Please don’t put me off, sir, but let me go on to dear gran’ther, and he will be sure to send you the money to-morrow,” pleaded Eva humbly, fearing that her little flash of anger might have damaged her cause. While the conductor hesitated, the New Yorker furtively slipped him a banknote. “All right, miss,” began the railroad man with alacrity, but her quick eyes had caught the little byplay, and she turned her dark eyes gratefully on the stranger. “You paid my fare; I saw you slip it to him so quietly,” she cried. “Oh, I thank you very, very much, for I’m afraid the conductor would have put me off at the first station. Please tell me your name, so I can send you the money as soon as I get home.” The conductor went on, and the New Yorker smiled and said easily: “If I tell you my name, you must tell me yours, little girl.” “I--I’d rather not! I don’t want you to know it!” she cried, fearfully in dread of being recognized and taken back to the asylum. “Just your first name,” he coaxed with so winning an air that she felt strangely drawn toward him, and answered softly: “It is Eva.” “Eva Groves!” he laughed gayly, adding, at her startled look: “You see, I can put two and two together. You told the conductor your grandfather’s name was Groves, so I guess yours must be the same.” “Now tell me yours,” she answered non-committally. “It isn’t necessary. I’ll call on your grandfather for the money when I come into Harrison County next week,” he answered, unfolding a newspaper and dropping the conversation. He had no intention of doing so, but his mind was in a tumult. Eva Somerville and her unknown father had crossed each other’s paths without the slightest recognition. He knew not that his dead wife had borne him a daughter, but he was familiar with the fact of the only son’s death in Kansas, and the adoption of the orphans by their grandfather. He said to himself: