It was useless to go on. He sat, bitterly forecasting the fortunes of those two lambs who had strayed so far from the green pastures and still waters, when he heard Phebe say softly, as if to herself,—
"We are almost there."
Mr. Burke began to fold his newspapers and get his bags in order. His hands rested upon the implements of his office—he carried them always in his pockets—while he stood balancing himself in the rocking car, and the porter dusted his hat and coat.
The train dashed past the first scattered lights of the town.
"Po-catello!" the brakeman roared in a voice of triumph, for they were "in" at last.
The porter came, and touched Ludovic on the shoulder.
"Gen'leman says he's ready, sir."
He rose and bent over Phebe. If she had been like any other girl he must have kissed her, but he dared not. He had prayed for a sign, and he had won it—that look of dumb and lasting anguish in her childlike eyes.
Yet, strange passion of the man's nature, he was not sorry for what he had done.
Mr. Burke took his arm in silence, and steered him out of the car; both doors were guarded, for he had feared there might be trouble. He was surprised at Ludovic's behavior.