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“As the night wore on the situation became intolerable. Every now and then she would start from her seat, jostled awake by the roughness of the road,–this section had just been completed,–turn her face the other way, only to be awakened again.

“‘You cannot sleep. May I make a pillow for your head of my other shawl? I do not need it. My coat is warm enough.’

“‘No; I am very comfortable.’

“‘Forgive me, you are not. You are very uncomfortable, and it pains me to see you so weary. These dividing-irons make it impossible for you to lie down. Perhaps I can make a cushion for your head so that you will rest easier.’

“She looked at me coldly, her eyes riveted on mine.

“‘You are very kind, but why do you care? You have never seen me before, and may never again.’

“‘I care because you are a woman, alone and unprotected. I care most because you are suffering. Will you let me help you?’

“She bent her head, and seemed wrapped in thought. Then straightening up, as if her mind had suddenly resolved,–

“‘No; leave me alone. I will sleep soon. Men never really care for a woman when she suffers.’ She turned her face to the window.

“‘I pity you, then, from the bottom of my heart,’ I replied, nettled at her remark. ‘There is not a man the length and breadth of my land who would not feel for you now as I do, and there is not a woman who would misunderstand him.’

“She raised her head, and in a softened voice, like a sorrowing child’s, it was so pathetic, said: ‘Please forgive me. I had no right to speak so. I shall be very grateful to you if you can help me; I am so tired.’

“I folded the shawl, arranged the rug over her knees, and took the seat beside her. She thanked me, laid her cheek upon the impromptu pillow, and closed her eyes. The train sped on, the carriage swaying as we rounded the curves, the jolting increasing as we neared the great tunnel. Settling myself in my seat, I drew my traveling-cap well down so that its shadow from the overhead light would conceal my eyes, and watched her unobserved. For half an hour I followed every line in her face, with its delicate nostrils, finely cut nose, white temples with their blue veins, and the beautiful hair glistening in the half-shaded light, the long lashes resting, tired out, upon her cheek. Soon I noticed at irregular intervals a nervous twitching pass over her face; the brow would knit and relax wearily, the mouth droop. These indications of extreme exhaustion occurred constantly, and alarmed me. Unchecked, they would result in an alarming form of nervous prostration. A sudden lurch dislodged the pillow.

“‘Have you slept?’ I asked.

“‘I do not know. A little, I think. The car shakes so.’

“‘My dear lady,’ I said, laying my hand on hers,–she started, but did not move her own,–‘it is absolutely necessary that you sleep, and at once. What your nervous strain has been, I know not; but my training tells me that it has been excessive, and still is. Its continuance is dangerous. This road gets rougher as the night passes. If you will rest your head upon my shoulder, I can hold you so that you will go to sleep.’

“Her face flushed, and she recovered her hand quickly.

“‘You forget, sir, that’–

“‘No, no; I forget nothing. I remember everything; that I am a stranger, that you are ill, that you are rapidly growing worse, that, knowing as I do your condition, I cannot sit here and not help you. It would be brutal.’

“Her lips quivered, and her eyes filled. ‘I believe you,’ she said. Then, turning quickly with an anxious look, ‘But it will tire you.’

“‘No; I have held my mother that way for hours at a time.’

“She put out her hand, laid it gently on my wrist, looked into my face long and steadily, scanning every feature, as if reassuring herself, then laid her cheek upon my shoulder, and fell asleep.