"I'm not a little girl," she answered, with quaint dignity—"I'm eighteen."
"Really!"—and the old gentleman looked more humorous than ever—"Oh well!—of course you are quite old. But, you see, I am seventy, so to me you seem a little girl. I suppose your friends will meet you in London?"
She hesitated—then answered, simply—
"No. I have no friends. I am going to earn my living."
The old gentleman whistled. It was a short, low whistle at first, but it developed into a bar of "Sally in our Alley," Then he looked round—the other people in the compartment, the husband and wife, were asleep.
"Poor child!" he then said, very gently—"I'm afraid that will be hard work for you. You don't look very strong."
"Oh, but I am!" she replied, eagerly—"I can do anything in housework or dairy-farming—I've been brought up to be useful—"
"That's more than a great many girls can say!" he remarked, smiling—"Well, well! I hope you may succeed! I also was brought up to be useful—but I'm not sure that I have ever been of any use!"
She looked at him with quick interest.
"Are you a clever man?" she asked.