The next instant she was standing alone with the old gentleman on the platform of the station, the train having suddenly dashed away and hidden itself behind a curve in the road.
“Come right this way to the carriage, my dear,” he said, wondering why the girl trembled so, and why her little hands were as cold as ice on this glorious October day.
“See, there is the carriage, and there is my daughter, Lucy,” he said, and glancing in the direction in which he was pointing, Jess saw a roomy, old vehicle, and in the front seat, holding the reins over a restless horse, a young girl of about her own age—a buxom, rosy-cheeked girl, whom she liked immensely—on sight.
The girl handed the lines to her father, and sprang out of the carriage to meet the newcomer, saying:
“We received uncle’s letter only this morning. I am Lucy Caldwell; and you are Jess—Jess what?” she queried, in the same breath. “Uncle forgot to tell us that. But, dear me, I must not stand talking. Jump right into the back seat, and we can talk away to our hearts’ content as we ride home. We haven’t far to go, and we wouldn’t have thought about hitching up if it hadn’t been for your trunk.”
Miss Lucy had been so busy rattling on in her voluble fashion that she did not notice the flush that stained her companion’s face from neck to brow as she questioned her concerning her name, which poor Jess had none to give. Nor did she note that her query remained unanswered.
“I am so glad to have a girl companion of my age,” declared Lucy, settling herself back among the cushions. “Ma has settled it that you are to share my room with me. I hope you won’t object to that?” she rattled on, adding:
“We have a spare room, as uncle knew, but he did not know that there was one in it just now; not a visitor, oh, no, though he is ever so much nicer than any visitor that comes here. To make a long story short, he was one of the passengers who was on that train which met with the terrible accident a few weeks ago, and was brought to us to care for, more dead than alive. He progressed wonderfully, however, and is nearly well now. I shall feel very sorry when he goes,” she added, her voice dropping to a low key and faltering ever so slightly. “His name is Moore, and, oh, he is so nice. See,” she cried, as they neared the farmhouse, “there he stands at the gate, waiting for us, and to see what you are like, most probably, for he heard uncle’s letter read aloud at the breakfast table, and he, who has seemed so little interested in anything, immediately took the liveliest kind of an interest in your coming.”
Jess’ eye followed the direction in which Lucy’s finger pointed, and beheld a picture which was to be engraven on her memory while life lasted; and this is what she saw:
A tall, graceful figure leaning against the gatepost, his folded arms resting upon it, his face, pale through illness, turned expectantly in the direction in which they were advancing.