There was a distant whistle; next, the panting as of some great beast, and an engine with its tail of carriages steamed into sight. It drew up slowly at the platform.
“Here y’are, ma’am. Carriage all to yourself. Boxes will be in the front part of the train. Thank you kindly, ma’am. Anything I can get for you? Paper or anything? Window up or down? Will put in the boxes myself. Good morning, ma’am.”
A tip proportionate to the fare Miss Mason had paid the cabby was responsible for this burst of eloquence.
In spite of the porter’s assurance that he would see to the boxes himself, Miss Mason stood with her head through the carriage window till she had seen them actually deposited in the guard’s van. Then she sat down in the corner of the carriage.
The porter reappeared.
“They’re in, ma’am. You’re off now.”
There was a gentle vibration through the train, and the platform began to recede. The one woman left on it—a stout woman who had been seeing her daughter off on her way to service—waved a large white pocket-handkerchief. Its fluttering was the last thing Miss Mason saw as the train left the station.
She heaved a little sigh.
She found she was still clutching the large umbrella. She laid it now upon the seat beside her. She was almost too excited to think of the happiness before her. She hardly wanted to do so. It was almost too overpowering. She would realize it by degrees. At the moment there were a thousand trivial delights around her.
She examined the carriage in which she was seated. The number on the door was seven hundred and seventy-seven. Miss Mason had a secret partiality for certain numbers, seven being her favourite. She was seven years old when she had her first silk frock. It was a blue and white check frock, and her hair—Miss Mason at that time wore it in two plaits—had been tied with blue ribbons. Seventeen had been, up to date, the happiest year of her life. But more of that year anon. At twenty-seven she had been allowed the entrance of Miss Stanhope’s library. At thirty-seven she had become the owner of a kitten. At forty-seven Miss Stanhope had given her the watch she now wore. At fifty-seven a favourite rose-tree had borne the most perfect flowers. Trivial enough facts to form landmarks in a life, yet they formed landmarks in Miss Mason’s.