"Come away to a seat," she whispered, and led her away some distance from the berth.
Sitting side by side, they mingled their tears together, for it seemed to Geraldine as if she could feel, by some divine instinct, all the force of the other woman's grief.
"For what, if I were married to my darling Harry, and Death took him—oh, it would break my heart!" she thought, wildly.
Standish had followed and taken a seat just behind her, where he could listen to every word that passed.
Oh, how she hated him for his dastardly espionage, but she dared not openly revolt. She bided her time.
She felt with a keen thrill of pleasure how the strange lady clung to her in the abandonment of her grief, nestling her weary head so confidingly against her shoulder, and letting her arm rest around the girl's waist.
"Tell me if there is anything I can do for you," she whispered, kindly, and the mourner hushed her sobs and murmured:
"Tell the conductor to make arrangements to take—take—my poor husband through to Chicago, our home."
Standish beckoned the conductor back to the seat, and there was a colloquy for some time over mournful details. When he went away, the lady who had grown calmer, lifted her tearful face, and looked at Geraldine, eagerly, tenderly.