Bad Hugh

Adah passed on, her weary sigh falling distinctly on his ear, but

falling to awaken a feeling of remorse for his unmanly conduct.

"I'm glad she's gone. I can't be bothered," was his mental comment as he

settled himself more comfortably, feeling a glow of satisfaction when

the train began to move, and he knew no more women with their babies

would be likely to trouble him.

With that first heavy strain of the machinery Adah lost her balance, and

would have fallen headlong but for the friendly hand put forth to save

the fall.

"Take my seat, miss. It is not very convenient, but it is better than

none. I can find another."

It was the friendliest voice imaginable which said these words to Adah,

and the kind tone in which they were uttered wrung the hot tears at once

from her eyes. She did not look up at him. She only knew that some one,

a gentleman, had arisen and was bending over her; that a hand, large,

white and warm, was laid upon her shoulder, putting her gently into the

narrow seat next the saloon; that the same hand took from her and hung

above her head the little satchel which was so much in her way, and that

the manly voice, so sympathetic in its tone, asked if she would be too

warm so near the fire.

She did not know there was a fire. She only knew that she had found a

friend, and with the delicious feeling of safety which the knowledge

brought, the tension of her nerves gave way, and burying her head on

Willie's face she wept for a moment silently. Then, lifting it up, she

tried to thank her benefactor, looking now at him for the first time,

and feeling half overawed to find him so tall, so stylish, so

exceedingly refined and aristocratic in every look and action.

Irving Stanley was a passenger on that train, bound for Albany. Like Dr.

Richards, he had hoped to enjoy a whole seat, even though it were not a

very comfortable one, but when he saw how pale and tired Adah was, he

arose at once to offer his seat. He heard her sweet, low voice as she

tried to thank him. He saw, too, the little, soft, white hands, holding

so fast to Willie. Was he her brother or her son? She was young to be

his mother. Perhaps she was his sister; but, no, there was no mistaking

the mother-love shining out from the brown eyes turned so quickly upon

the boy when he moaned, as if in pain, and seemed about to waken.