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“Gee!” said the Traveling Salesman. “‘Twas up on just the edge of Canada, wasn’t it? And three of the passenger coaches went off the track? And the sleeper went clear over the bridge? And fell into an awful gully? And caught fire besides?”

“Yes,” said the Youngish Girl. “I was in the sleeper.”

Even without seeming to look at her at all, the Traveling Salesman could see quite distinctly that the Youngish Girl’s knees were fairly knocking together and that the flesh around her mouth was suddenly gray and drawn, like an old person’s. But the little persistent desire to laugh off everything still flickered about the corners of her lips.

“Yes,” she said, “I was in the sleeper, and the two people right in front of me were killed; and it took almost three hours, I think, before they got any of us out. And while I was lying there in the darkness and mess and everything, I cried–and cried–and cried. It wasn’t nice of me, I know, nor brave, nor anything, but I couldn’t seem to help it–underneath all that pile of broken seats and racks and beams and things.

“And pretty soon a man’s voice–just a voice, no face or anything, you know, but just a voice from somewhere quite near me, spoke right out and said: ‘What in creation are you crying so about? Are you awfully hurt?’ And I said–though I didn’t mean to say it at all, but it came right out–‘N-o, I don’t think I’m hurt, but I don’t like having all these seats and windows piled on top of me,’ and I began crying all over again. ‘But no one else is crying,’ reproached the Voice.–‘And there’s a perfectly good reason why not,’ I said. ‘They’re all dead!’–‘O–h,’ said the Voice, and then I began to cry harder than ever, and principally this time, I think, I cried because the horrid, old red plush cushions smelt so stale and dusty, jammed against my nose.

“And then after a long time the Voice spoke again and it said, ‘If I’ll sing you a little song, will you stop crying?’ And I said, ‘N-o, I don’t think I could!’ And after a long time the Voice spoke again, and it said, ‘Well, if I’ll tell you a story will you stop crying?’ And I considered it a long time, and finally I said, ‘Well, if you’ll tell me a perfectly true story–a story that’s never, never been told to any one before–I’ll try and stop!‘

“So the Voice gave a funny little laugh almost like a woman’s hysterics, and I stopped crying right off short, and the Voice said, just a little bit mockingly: ‘But the only perfectly true story that I know–the only story that’s never–never been told to anybody before is the story of my life.’ ‘Very well, then,’ I said, ‘tell me that! Of course I was planning to live to be very old and learn a little about a great many things; but as long as apparently I’m not going to live to even reach my twenty-ninth birthday–to-morrow–you don’t know how unutterably it would comfort me to think that at least I knew everything about some one thing!’

“And then the Voice choked again, just a little bit, and said: ‘Well–here goes, then. Once upon a time–but first, can you move your right hand? Turn it just a little bit more this way. There! Cuddle it down! Now, you see, I’ve made a little home for it in mine. Ouch! Don’t press down too hard! I think my wrist is broken. All ready, then? You won’t cry another cry? Promise? All right then. Here goes. Once upon a time–‘

“Never mind about the story,” said the Youngish Girl tersely. “It began about the first thing in all his life that he remembered seeing–something funny about a grandmother’s brown wig hung over the edge of a white piazza railing–and he told me his name and address, and all about his people, and all about his business, and what banks his money was in, and something about some land down in the Panhandle, and all the bad things that he’d ever done in his life, and all the good things, that he wished there’d been more of, and all the things that no one would dream of telling you if he ever, ever expected to see Daylight again–things so intimate–things so–