“Well, what do you want at this time of night?” (Time of night, and it but seven-thirty!)
“I'm the lecturer,” I panted.
“Oh, come! Ain't they sent for ye? Here, I'll take 'em. Walk in and welcome. You look beat out. Well—well—wife and I was won-derin' why nothin' driv past for the six-ten. We knowed you was comin'. Then agin, the station master's sick, and I 'spose ye couldn't warm up none. And they ain't sent for ye? And they let ye tramp all—Well—well!”
I did not answer. I hadn't breath enough left for sustained conversation; moreover, there was a red-hot stove ahead of me, and a rocking-chair,—comforts I had never expected to see again—and there was a pine table—oh, a lovely pine table, with a most exquisite white oil-cloth cover, holding the most beautiful kerosene lamp with a piece of glorious red flannel floating in its amber fluid; and in the corner—a wife—a sweet-faced, angelic-looking young wife, with a baby in her arms too beautiful for words—must have been!
I dropped into the chair, spread my fingers to the stove and looked around—warmth—rest-peace—comfort—companionship—all in a minute!
“No, they didn't send anything,” I wheezed when my breath came. “The conductor told me I should find the farmhouse over the hill—and—”
“Yes, that's so; it's back a piece, you must have missed it.”
“Yes—I must have missed it,” I continued in a dazed way.
“The folks at the farmhouse is goin' to hear ye speak, so they told me. Must be startin' now.”
“Would you please let them know I am here, and—”