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“When the train started, the dark man, who had remained standing, touched his hat to me, raised it to the lady, and disappeared. Her only acknowledgment was a slight inclination of the head. A polite stranger, no doubt, I thought, who prefers the smoker. When the train stopped for luncheon, I noticed that the lady did not leave the carriage, and on my return I found her still seated, looking listlessly out of the window, her head upon her hand.

“‘Pardon me, madame,’ I said in French, ‘but unless you travel some distance this is the last station where you can get anything to eat.’

“She started, and looked about helplessly. ‘I am not hungry. I cannot eat–but I suppose I should.’

“‘Permit me;’ and I sprang from the carriage, and caught a waiter with a tray before the guard reclosed the doors. She drank the coffee, tasted the fruit, thanking me in a low, sweet voice, and said:–

“‘You are very considerate. It will help me to bear my journey. I am very tired, and weaker than I thought; for I have not slept for many nights.’

“I expressed my sympathy, and ended by telling her I hoped we could keep the carriage to ourselves; she might then sleep undisturbed. She looked at me fixedly, a curious startled expression crossing her face, but made no reply.

“Almost every man is drawn, I think, to a sad or tired woman. There is a look about the eyes that makes an instantaneous draft on the sympathies. So, when these slight confidences of my companion confirmed my misgivings as to her own weariness, I at once began diverting her as best I could with some account of my summer’s experience in Venice, and with such of my plans for the future as at the moment filled my mind. I was younger then,–perhaps only a year or two her senior,–and you know one is not given to much secrecy at twenty-six: certainly not with a gentle lady whose good-will you are trying to gain, and whose sorrowful face, as I have said, enlists your sympathy at sight. Then, to establish some sort of footing for myself, I drifted into an account of my own home life; telling her of my mother and sisters, of the social customs of our country, of the freedom given the women,–so different from what I had seen abroad,–of their perfect safety everywhere.

“We had been talking in this vein some time, she listening quietly until something I said reacted in a slight curl of her lips,–more incredulous than contemptuous, perhaps, but significant all the same; for, lifting her eyes, she answered slowly and meaningly:–

“‘It must be a paradise for women. I am glad to believe that there is one corner of the earth where they are treated with respect. My own experiences have been so different that I have begun to believe that none of us are safe after we leave our cradles.’ Then, as if suddenly realizing the inference, the color mounting to her cheeks, she added: ‘But please do not misunderstand me. I am quite willing to accept your statement; for I never met an American before.’

“As we neared the foothills the air grew colder. She instinctively drew her cloak the closer, settling herself in one corner and closing her eyes wearily. I offered my rug, insisting that she was not properly clad for a journey over the mountains at night. She refused gently but firmly, and closed her eyes again, resting her head against the dividing cushion. For a moment I watched her; then arose from my seat, and, pulling down my bundle of shawls, begged that I might spread my heaviest rug over her lap. An angry color mounted to her cheeks. She turned upon me, and was about to refuse indignantly, when I interrupted:–

“‘Please allow me; don’t you know you cannot sleep if you are cold? Let me put this wrap about you. I have two.’