Her momentary awe of Patience vanished when she discovered that, in spite of her dignified bearing, this tall, fair young woman was as full of fun as the droll Emma Dean.
The quartette started for the station with Patience and Emma in the lead. Grace walked with Mary, talking brightly of Overton to her absorbed listener. She had just begun to tell Mary of Kathleen West, her clever work as a newspaper woman and of how her play had won the honor pin, when they arrived at the station.
"Wait here while I see if the train is on time," directed Grace.
The three young women strolled slowly along the platform, pausing at one end of it.
"The train's on time," called Grace as she came out of the station and approached them. "It's due in four minutes. Listen! Didn't you hear it whistle?"
A minute later it was visible around the bend and bearing down on the station with a great puffing and whistling.
"I see her," announced Emma. "She's getting off at the upper end of the train."
An alert little figure in a gray coat suit came swinging down the platform, a suit case in each hand, her keen, dark eyes scanning every face. Suddenly she caught sight of her friends. Dropping her luggage she ran forward, both hands extended. Grace caught them in hers. The two embraced, then Grace passed Kathleen on to Patience.
"And to think that Emma Dean is to be one of us!" exclaimed Kathleen. "Emma, the one sure and certain cure for the blues. I didn't half appreciate you last year." A swift flush rose to her cheeks. "I didn't appreciate any one. I missed knowing Overton's best, but I'm so thankful that part of that best has come back again, so that I can really show how much I care," she finished, her eyes very bright.
The little company lingered on the platform, for there was so much to be said that they were loath to move on. So absorbed were they in their own affairs they did not observe that a tall, raw-boned, roughly dressed man, with a gaunt, disagreeable face had been stealthily edging nearer the group until within a few feet of them. All at once a long bony hand was thrust into their midst. The hand landed on the shoulder of Mary Reynolds, swinging her almost off her feet. She did not scream, but her face grew white and her eyes horror-stricken. Then she wrenched desperately to free herself from the cruel clutch, gasping, "Let—me—alone. I—won't—go back—with—you."