“Our fatal good nature. That’s it!” cried Tavia.
Dorothy had a hazy idea that somebody in the berth beneath her was restless. Then she fell asleep, roused only now and then by the stopping and starting of the train. At seven she was wide awake, however, and as the train was still going at full speed, she crept down from her high perch and started for the ladies’ room at the end of the car.
But suddenly a hand was stretched out for her and the person in the lower berth whispered:
“I say, Miss! I say!”
Dorothy turned to see a little old lady, in a close, black bonnet with the strings untied, but otherwise fully dressed. It was plain she had gone to bed in all her clothing the night before.
“Can a body git up, Miss?” whispered the worried old creature. “My goodness me! I been useter gittin’ up when the fust rooster crows; this has been the longest night I ever remember.”
“Why, you poor dear!” returned Dorothy, warmly. “Of course you can get up. Come with me and I’ll help you tidy yourself for the day. You must feel all mussed up.”
“I do,” admitted the old lady, feelingly.
She came after Dorothy, but the latter saw that she bore with her a covered basket, the cover being tied close with bits of string.
“You need not be afraid of leaving your lunch basket in the berth. Nobody will take it,” Dorothy said.