Travers came to himself at once, and took her head on his knee where but a short time ago it had lain so happily.
"You, Priscilla!" It was Margaret Moffatt who spoke. The train had stopped; the few passengers had come back to see what had happened.
"Yes; my God! Yes! Miss Moffatt, will you see if she is dead? I dare not trust—myself."
It was late that night, in Priscilla's room at the inn, that she and Margaret had their talk.
Priscilla lay upon her bed weak and bruised, but otherwise safe. Margaret sat beside her, her hand in Priscilla's.
"Doctor Travers has pulled himself together at last," she said. "I never saw a strong man so shattered. And you, dear, you are sure you have told me the truth—you are not suffering?"
"No, only a little dazed. That's natural after looking death in the face for hours and hours while everything slipped away from you—things you had always thought meant something."
"Yes, poor girl!"
"And they—meant nothing. They never do."