It was an express and leaped ahead splendidly, catching up with itself. Her thoughts leaped ahead with it. No, no, he would not be in bed. Sheelah was not going to tell him, so he would insist upon waiting up. But she might find him asleep in his poor little boots! She caught her breath in half a sob, half tender laugh. Little Silly!
But if an express, why this stop? They were slowing up. It was not time to get to the home station; there were no lights. Murray’s mother waylaid a passing brakeman.
“What is it? What is it?”
“All right, all right! Don’t be scairt, lady! Wreck ahead somewheres—freight-train. We got to wait till they clear the track.”
But the misery of waiting! He might get tired of waiting, or Sheelah might tell him his mother was not coming out to-night; he might go to bed, with his poor little faith in the Promise wrecked, like the freight on there in the dark. She could not sit still and bear the thought; it was not much easier pacing the aisle. She felt a wild inclination to get off the train and walk home.
At the home station, when at last she reached it, she took a carriage. “Drive fast!” she said, peremptorily. “I’ll pay you double fare.”
The houses they rattle past were ablaze with light down-stairs, not up-stairs where little sons would be going to bed. All the little sons had gone to bed.
They stopped with a terrific lurch. It threw her on to the seat ahead.
“This is not the place,” she cried, sharply, after a glance without.
“No’m; we’re stopping fer recreation,” drawled sarcastically the unseen driver. He appeared to be assisting the horse to lie down. She stumbled to the ground and demanded things.