It was dull and bleak next day, and Glory was tired. The fierce little spark of energy seemed to have flickered out altogether.
“Don't say ‘good-by, dear,’—say, ‘Good-by, Disappointment,’” she said at Aunt Hope's couch the last moment.
“Good-by, dear,” said Aunt Hope.
The early morning train was in the little station when Glory got there. She had just time to whisk up the steps on to the platform. The Crosspatch Conductor swung himself up after her. Glory eyed his empty hands with distinct disappointment.
“Haven't you got my books?” she panted, out of breath with her hurrying.
“Nary a book,” the conductor said shortly. “Couldn't find 'em. Went through the whole train. Weren't any books. You'll have to hang on to 'em next time, young lady.”
“I don't see how I can if I can't find 'em,” sighed the “young lady.” She went into the car and sat down heavily. Oh, it was too bad! She had been so sure the conductor would have them for her. She didn't want to lose them—not now, after that story. Oh, poor auntie!
There were not many early morning passengers. Among others Glory noticed an old man and two young men with dinner pails, and old lady without one, and a girl in a shabby jacket. She hadn't any dinner pail in sight, anyway. She sat in the seat ahead of Glory and pored over a book. She seemed buried—lost—in it.
Glory sat on the edge of her seat with her elbow on the window-sill and her chin in her hand. Her glance wandered gloomily around the car and came to rest at last on the open page of the Other Girl's book.
What—What! Glory leaned forward and gazed intently at the open page. On the margins were words scrawled carelessly in—her—handwriting! The odd, perked-up letters were unmistakable. Who else ever wrote like that? Who ever made M's and capital S's like that?