“May I go out on the platform?”
“No, decidedly not,” he answered, in a firm though kind tone, then hurried out, Max following.
Lulu rose and stood at the window, watching for their appearance outside. They were there in a moment, right below it.
“Papa,” she called softly.
He looked up with a smile. “Dear child,” he said, “move about the car, it will rest you. I know you are tired sitting so long.”
He walked on, and she stepped out into the aisle and promenaded it up and down several times, stopping occasionally, now at one window, now at another, to gaze out over the landscape; a seemingly boundless prairie on one side, with a great herd of cattle feeding in the distance; on the other, woods and low-lying hills; no sign of human habitation or of human occupancy anywhere to be seen, except the little coaling station before which the train was standing.
The car was nearly empty now, almost all the passengers, excepting a few children and those in charge of them, having, like her father and Max, taken advantage of the halting of the train to get a little outdoor exercise, Mr. Austin and Albert among the rest.
The latter, however, returned almost immediately. As he stepped in at the car door his eyes fell upon a dainty white pocket-handkerchief lying on the floor. He stooped and picked it up, glancing around the car in search of the owner.
Lulu, standing at the window near by, with her back toward him, seemed most likely to be the one, and he approached her at once, asking in a polite tone, “Is not this your property, Miss? Excuse the liberty, but I found it lying on the floor, and it seemed likely to belong to you,” holding out the article as he spoke.
Lulu had turned round at the first sound of his voice. “Thank you,” she said; “yes, it is mine, for there is my name in the corner; in papa’s own handwriting.”