Then Lilith broke down for the first time since that crushing blow, and wept bitterly though silently behind her vail.
Her fellow-passengers did not seem to notice the weeping, or even if they did, they probably thought her tears were only caused by some ordinary parting with friends, a mere matter of course, too trifling to cause remark or sympathy.
The motion of the cars often has a soporific effect upon passengers, and especially upon a woman traveling alone and at night. So it came to pass that Lilith, poor, tired child that she was, cried herself to sleep, and slept soundly, rocked by the swift, smooth motion of the train.
She dreamed a very vivid dream, that seemed a very graphic reality. In her dream her husband was seated by her side, and they were traveling to Washington together. Her promise of secrecy had been canceled, and her tongue had been loosed in some strange way, possible only in dreams, and she was telling him, with her head upon his bosom and her arms around his neck, the wonderful story of her parents’ youthful life and love and sorrow, and the true story of her own birth.
And he, holding her in his arms, pressed her to his heart, was listening with such affection, sympathy and admiration. He was saying so earnestly:
“And you, my brave little darling, you have borne all this misconstruction, all this humiliation, rather than betray your trust. But I love you more than ever for all that you have borne and suffered, my Lilith.”
A shock startled Lilith out of her deep sleep and dispelled her beautiful dream.
What was this? Where was she?
On the train, indeed—on the train, that had just stopped at a crowded junction and taken on additional cars, which had joined with a shock that waked her. But——
Where was Tudor?