I begged that my friend might be unmolested, and made my way through the coaches to the last one. A lady was sitting two seats from the back, and the instant my eyes fell upon her I had to grasp the arm of a seat for support. The same noble features that were now lying so rigid in the car ahead; the same dark eye that I had so recently closed with a sorrowing hand! I knew in a moment it was his mother. I strengthened myself as well as I was able, and approaching her, bowed and said:
“Did you wish to see me, madam?”
She looked at me earnestly, as she replied:
“Pardon me, sir, but are you the gentleman whose friend has just been killed?”
“I am, madam.”
“I heard a gentleman, a few seats from me, say the unfortunate man’s name was DeVare. As that is my own name, and I have a dear boy who has been at college in North Carolina, I felt a restless anxiety to know more, and ventured to intrude on your grief.”
I made no reply, and she continued:
“It was a silly fear in me, I’m sure. It could not have been Raymond, for he would have written to me.”
I still said nothing, for the simple reason I did not know what to say, and, after a pause, she asked:
“What was your friend’s given name, sir?”