A train had whizzed up to the station over the way and whizzed off again. The track lay behind the station; so that, at first, alighting passengers were invisible from the spot where Jessica waited, perched on the pony’s back, which wore a harness instead of a saddle. Even to her it was not a comfortable arrangement and a less experienced rider would have found it almost impossible.
Suddenly, the broncho’s eyes wavered from the train they had watched disappearing northward and came back to a passenger just coming into sight around the station. A quiver of some fresh emotion ran through all his sturdy frame, and with a wild whinny of delight he threw up his head and bolted across the roadway. Another instant and Jessica was off his back, in the arms of this passenger, crying incredulously:
“Mother! Why, mother! Is it you? Is it my—Mother!”
“My darling, my darling! It is true, then, that you are quite safe, unharmed?” returned Mrs. Trent, folding her daughter close, then holding her off at arm’s length, the better to assure herself of the girl’s safety.
“And Buster saw you first! Think of that! The pony saw and knew you first! But when—why—where? Ned? How happened—” demanded the excited “Little Captain,” without pausing for answers to her hurrying questions.
“Why? because it had to happen. Did you think I could learn of your peril in that terrible fire and not come to find you for myself? Indeed, I started within the hour after Mr. Hale’s telegram arrived, even though it was most reassuring and I see now quite true. But, why are you just here in this place? I stopped at Mr. Hale’s office to find the address of Cousin Margaret, but he was out and only an office boy there. Fortunately he found it on the address-book and I took the next train north. O my darling! My darling little Jess!”
During this fresh embrace a familiar voice broke upon that rhapsody of reunion, exclaiming:
“Not a mite more’n I expected. I’ve been reckoning time and I ’lowed to-day was about the limit. How are you, ma’am?”
Mrs. Trent released her daughter to take the outstretched hands of “Forty-niner,” and to cry, in response:
“You expected me, Mr. Marsh? But I might have known. You were always wise and sympathetic. You’d have done just the same, wouldn’t you?”