He approached the berth. “What kin I do fur ye M’am?” he whispered.
“Porter, who is that you are talking to? It sounds like some one I know.”
“Yassum, hit’s young gent name er Gaston, jump on bode at the water station—say he got ‘portant message fur you.”
“Tell him I will see him in a moment.”
The porter returned with the message.
“You des wait in dar, in number one—hits not made up—twell she come,” he added.
There was the soft rustle of a dressing gown—he sprang to his feet, clasped her hand passionately, kissed it, and silently she took her seat by his side. He still held her hand, and she pressed his gently in response. He saw that she was crying, and his heart was too full for words for a moment.
He looked long and wistfully in her face. In her dishevelled hair by the dim light of the car he thought her more beautiful than ever. At last she brushed the tears from her eyes and turned her face full on his with a sad smile.
“My own dear love!” she sobbed, “I prayed that I might see you somehow before I left. I was wide awake when I first heard the distant murmur of your voice. Oh! I am so glad you came!” and she pressed his hand.
“I got your letter at ten-thirty”—