He was deeply tanned from his summer’s work in the fields. He was clad in a pair of overalls, without coat or vest or hat; and his feet were encased in coarse and clumsy shoes, while, as may be surmised, he was drenched and soiled from his rough work in the field and storm.
But, to admiring little Miss Heatherford, this lack of “purple and fine linen” and other accessories of high life to which she had always been accustomed, made not the slightest difference. It was the spirit of the youth, the character and nobility which were stamped upon his fine, open face, and that alone of which she was conscious.
And almost the first object that young Faxon’s great, dark eyes rested upon as he made his way from the car was the fair, upturned face of the beautiful girl with the eager light of hero-worship in her own blue eyes, the quivering of intense emotion hovering about her red lips.
She made her way close to his side, regardless of the crowd that was gathering to get a look at him, and held out a dainty white hand upon which sparkled rare and costly gems.
“I want to thank you,” she began, with almost breathless eagerness. “You have saved my life—you have saved all our lives, and it is such a wonderful, such a grand thing to have done! I am very grateful to you, for my life is very, very bright. I love to live. Oh, I cannot say half there is in my heart, but I shall never forget you. I shall love you for your heroism of this day always. Here, please take this to remind you that I mean every word I have said. It seems small and mean, in view of what you have done, but when you look at it I want you to remember that there is one grateful heart in the world that will never forget you.”
While she was speaking she had slipped from her finger the exquisitely carved cameo ring which Philip Wentworth had begged her to give him only a few hours previous, and, as she ceased, with tears in her eyes, she thrust it into the brown hand of the youth, and, before he could protest against accepting it, she had glided away, and was lost among the crowd.
The next moment the throng parted, and a gentleman stood before him, claiming his attention.
In a few words of grateful acknowledgment he presented him with what he termed “a slight testimonial” of the appreciation of the passengers for his act of heroism that afternoon, and wished him all success in the future.
The testimonial was in the form of a good-sized wallet, well filled with greenbacks and coins of various denominations. Then he took the boy by the arm, led him down the platform to a carriage, and, putting a five-dollar bill into the coachman’s hand, bade him take him to his home, wherever that might be.
Young Faxon, with tears of emotion in his eyes, sprang into the vehicle, glad to escape from the curious crowd, and was driven away amid the cheers of the grateful passengers of the “limited express,” which, a moment later, was again thundering on its way toward its destination.