“I have no ticket,” said the girl, “but I have money to pay my fare, if you will tell me how much it is.”
“Where are you going to?”
That very natural and proper question was appalling to Marion. She hesitated a moment, thinking very fast how she should surmount the difficulty which had unexpectedly arisen, then answered his question, Yankee fashion, with another:
“What does it cost to go to the end of the line?”
“Three dollars to go to Troy.”
“Then please sell me a ticket for Troy,” said Marion, handing him a five-dollar bill, and watching him anxiously while he looked at it scrutinizingly before handing her two dollars and a little certificate upon which he informed her she could reclaim five cents if she offered it at a station; Marion cared very little for that just then, but she did care for the check he gave her, with the names of all the stopping-places printed on the back.
The car was full of people with their backs toward the door Marion had entered, and no one had noticed her except those in the farthest back seats. Her appearance excited some remark for a few moments, but no one showed any special curiosity about her except the thin lady in the seat opposite hers. She indeed watched her so closely that she could hardly give any attention to the red wool crochet-work that occupied her fingers. There was something that Marion at first thought rather forbidding about her sharp black eyes, but around her mouth was a pleasant, comfortable expression that made it seem quite natural that she should after a while lean over toward Marion, and stretch out her hand with a big red apple in it.
Marion took it with rather a greedy feeling, for she had missed her dinner and was beginning to feel quite hungry.
“Mebbe you’d better set over here by me,” said the donor, pleased to see her apple so well appreciated; “you’re a-settin’ right inter the sun.”
“How beautifully you crochet!” said Marion, gratefully taking the cooler seat.