This work of fiction commences THE guard was a stout man with a red face, and he had a queer way of puffing out his words, one at a time. Had the ordinary number of passengers crowded the cars there would have been the usual number of comments on the thin, wheezy voice in such a great big body. "Birmingham next " he called, as the train came to a halt at the little wayside station. There were a half-dozen listeners-no more. Trains from New York to the White Mountains are not crowded at Thanksgiving time. Suddenly the guard, busy with the lights, dropped them, bending over to assist a slim young lady to climb up the steps that led to the platform. Perhaps this civility was due, in great part, to the fact that the light from those same lanterns had fallen on a witching pair of blue eyes, raised to his confidingly before she placed her foot on the step. Entering the car, she sat down near the door, putting a leather dressing-case he carried on the seat beside her, and throwing a costly fur muff on top of it. "This is much nicer," she said, musingly. "More secluded. I Wonder what Dick will say when he gets that telegram? That one woman knows bow to keep her word, I suppose." She laughed. "Traveling is so monotonous, and so tiresome-when one travels alone."