Near at hand was a shack, as ugly as all the other buildings; but there seemed to be some life about it.
At least, Nan, before she left the car, had seen the flutter of a child’s skirt at the door of the hovel. She now crossed the tracks and went cautiously toward the miserable dwelling.
Nan saw the child again at the door of the cabin, but only for an instant. She shouted to the little one, but the latter bashfully slipped inside the door.
Nan was very fond of children and this little towheaded child interested her. There was still plenty of time before the two halves of the train would be brought together.
Nan ran across the desert of cinders and weeds toward the cabin. Nobody else appeared at the broken window or the open door, but suddenly she heard an ear-piercing shriek from within.
It was the voice of the child. It sounded from the loft of the cabin, into which the little girl had doubtless climbed to escape from Nan’s thoughtless curiosity.
“What’s the matter? What’s the matter, my dear?” the girl from Tillbury cried, her feet spurred more quickly toward the cabin beside the railroad track.
The tiny girl shrieked for the second time—a shrill, agonized alarm. A more timid person would have been halted by the very nature of the cry. But Nan Sherwood did not hesitate. In a moment she was at the door of the hovel.