The flying train sped on through the night with Ralph Chainey. He had thrown himself down dressed upon his berth, for the porter had told him that he would have to change cars at midnight.
He was restless and troubled. No sleep visited his eyes. In spite of himself, his thought turned back to Boston—to Kathleen Carew. She haunted him with her musical voice and luring eyes. At last a deep groan forced itself through his lips.
"I would to Heaven we had never met!" he exclaimed, in a tone of deep despair.
Pushing back the light curtain, he looked out into the night. It had grown cold and bleak. A light patter of mingled rain and snow was beating against the window.
"How dreary!" the young man murmured, with a shudder; and added, in a sort of awe: "Dying! can that be true?"
The porter, who was very attentive—the result of a liberal tip—came and put his head between the curtains.
"We change cars at the next station, Mr. Chainey, and that's but a few miles away. You'd better be getting ready."
Ralph came into the little reception-room, and the man assisted him into his overcoat. A few minutes more, and the train was slowing up at the lonely station.