Sister Agnes was a practical woman. She wound up her fruitless search by shaking the child, as if the latter were a plum-tree and might yield over-ripe railway tickets from its branches.
It did. The ticket dropped to the platform from beneath the loose-fitting dress.
"There it is!" cried the gatekeeper.
And Sister Agnes shook her again, although, as there were no more tickets, the act seemed quite superfluous.
Outside the station waited a sort of carryall, or van, drawn by a single horse, which turned his aged head to view the new-comer, as did also the driver.
"Oh! so you're coming, eh?" said the latter.
"Yes,—long enough!" grumbled Sister Agnes.
They had driven some distance through the streets of a big town without a word, when the last speaker addressed her companion in a low voice.
"You noted the ticket?"