“Barr, will you take charge of Miss Linden?” asked Justin abruptly. He did not particularly like Barr, but this was an emergency. “Will you take her to Mrs. Alexander?”
“I will, indeed,” said the newcomer, with responsive earnestness.
“Very well, then; I’ll go back on this boat. I’ll be out on a later train, tell Lois.” He started to make his way to the other end of the boat, to be in readiness for the return trip, and turned back once more to give the girl her ticket; then he was lost to sight, and Theodosia was left, for the third time, on the hands of an unknown man.
This one only spoke to give her the necessary directions as they joined the usual rush for the train, and refrained from talking, to her great relief, after he had settled her comfortably in the car for the last half-hour of traveling. She leaned against the window-casing, as before, as far away from him as possible, suddenly and wretchedly aware of her dilapidated appearance and the boy’s cap that covered the fair hair curling out from under it. Her cheeks were whiter than ever, and the corners of her mouth had the pathetic droop of extreme fatigue.
She looked, without knowing it, very young, very forlorn, and very frightened, and the hand in which she held the ticket given her by Justin trembled. She was morbidly afraid that this new person would question her as to the accident, about which she shrank from speaking; but after a while, encouraged by his silence, she tried to turn her thoughts by stealthily observing him.
If her friend of the voice and hand of the night before had been only a tall blur in the darkness, the man beside her was effectively concrete. Neither tall nor large, he gave an impression of strength and vitality in the ease and quickness of his motions, which bespoke trained muscles. She decided that he was rather old—perhaps thirty. Dark-skinned, black-haired, with a thin face, a low forehead, deep-set eyes, a high, rather hooked nose, and a mustache, he was somewhat of the Oriental type, although, as she learned later, a New Englander by birth and heritage. Dosia was not quite sure whether the effect was pleasing or the reverse; there seemed to be something about him different from the other men she had seen, even in his clothing, although it was plain enough.
Interspersed with these observations were the increasing throbs of homesickness that threatened to overwhelm her. Kind as Justin had been, she had felt all the time outside of his thought and affection. This new companion had shown consideration for her; she was grateful for it, but she was unprepared to have him lean suddenly toward her, as a tear trembled perilously on her lashes, and say, with twinkling eyes:
“I beg your pardon, but do I look like him?”
“Like—like whom?” asked Dosia, in amazement.
“Like a person to be approved of.”