She reached him a worn old book, which he took and from it read aloud:
“Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
“That’s the pass over our road, ma’am. Are you ready?”
The light died away and darkness fell in its place. My hand touched the stroke of one. Simmons awoke with a start, and snatched his lantern. The whistles sounded down brakes; the train was due. He ran to the corner and shook the old woman.
“Wake up, marm; ’tis train time.”
But she never heeded. He gave one look at the white, set face, and dropping his lantern, fled.
The up-train halted, the conductor shouted “All aboard,” but no one made a move that way.
The next morning, when the ticket agent came, he found her frozen to death. They whispered among themselves, and the coroner made out the verdict “apoplexy,” and it was in some way hushed up.
They laid her out in the depot, and advertised for her friends, but no one came. So, after the second day they buried her.