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“A nice lookout for Christmas–no, impossible to go on or back–track blocked for miles–what’s that, madam?–no, no station near–woods for miles. We’re here for the night. These storms of late have played the mischief with everything.”

“Oh, dear,” groaned Lucy Rose.

Aunt Cyrilla looked at her basket complacently. “At any rate, we won’t starve,” she said.

The pale, pretty girl seemed indifferent. The sealskin lady looked crosser than ever. The khaki boy said, “Just my luck,” and two of the children began to cry. Aunt Cyrilla took some apples and striped candy sticks from her basket and carried them to them. She lifted the oldest into her ample lap and soon had them all around her, laughing and contented.

The rest of the travellers straggled over to the corner and drifted into conversation. The khaki boy said it was hard lines not to get home for Christmas, after all.

“I was invalided from South Africa three months ago, and I’ve been in the hospital at Netley ever since. Reached Halifax three days ago and telegraphed the old folks I’d eat my Christmas dinner with them, and to have an extra-big turkey because I didn’t have any last year. They’ll be badly disappointed.”

He looked disappointed too. One khaki sleeve hung empty by his side. Aunt Cyrilla passed him an apple.

“We were all going down to Grandpa’s for Christmas,” said the little mother’s oldest boy dolefully. “We’ve never been there before, and it’s just too bad.”

He looked as if he wanted to cry but thought better of it and bit off a mouthful of candy.

“Will there be any Santa Claus on the train?” demanded his small sister tearfully. “Jack says there won’t.”

“I guess he’ll find you out,” said Aunt Cyrilla reassuringly.

The pale, pretty girl came up and took the baby from the tired mother. “What a dear little fellow,” she said softly.

“Are you going home for Christmas too?” asked Aunt Cyrilla.

The girl shook her head. “I haven’t any home. I’m just a shop girl out of work at present, and I’m going to Pembroke to look for some.”

Aunt Cyrilla went to her basket and took out her box of cream candy. “I guess we might as well enjoy ourselves. Let’s eat it all up and have a good time. Maybe we’ll get down to Pembroke in the morning.”

The little group grew cheerful as they nibbled, and even the pale girl brightened up. The little mother told Aunt Cyrilla her story aside. She had been long estranged from her family, who had disapproved of her marriage. Her husband had died the previous summer, leaving her in poor circumstances.

“Father wrote to me last week and asked me to let bygones be bygones and come home for Christmas. I was so glad. And the children’s hearts were set on it. It seems too bad that we are not to get there. I have to be back at work the morning after Christmas.”

The khaki boy came up again and shared the candy. He told amusing stories of campaigning in South Africa. The minister came too, and listened, and even the sealskin lady turned her head over her shoulder.

By and by the children fell asleep, one on Aunt Cyrilla’s lap and one on Lucy Rose’s, and two on the seat. Aunt Cyrilla and the pale girl helped the mother make up beds for them. The minister gave his overcoat and the sealskin lady came forward with a shawl.

“This will do for the baby,” she said.

“We must get up some Santa Claus for these youngsters,” said the khaki boy. “Let’s hang their stockings on the wall and fill ’em up as best we can. I’ve nothing about me but some hard cash and a jack-knife. I’ll give each of ’em a quarter and the boy can have the knife.”

“I’ve nothing but money either,” said the sealskin lady regretfully.

Aunt Cyrilla glanced at the little mother. She had fallen asleep with her head against the seat-back.