He knew it would be the last time he would see it for a long while, for pretty Mollie Heatherford was soon to go abroad for an indefinite period. She had been spending a week with the Temples in Brookline—Phil’s home—making a farewell visit previous to her departure, and she was now on her way to New York to rejoin her father and mother, and the trio were to sail for Europe within a few days.
“By Jove! I believe she is the prettiest girl I ever saw, and she’ll have a pile of money some day. I’ll stick to Mollie and her pile, and the Cambridge girls may hang their harps on the willows for all me. I’m going to look out for number one.”
Such were the mental comments of Philip Wentworth, whose mother—a widow—had married a wealthy man by the name of Temple some four years previous. And these comments were an index to the young man’s character, which, summed up in a word, might be written selfish.
The express-train steamed rapidly on its way, bearing the pretty heiress of the Heatherford million toward her home. The day had been very hot and sultry—it was late in July—and some three hours after leaving Boston ominous clouds began to gather in the West. A little later the train ran into a terrific electric-storm.
Mollie Heatherford sat crouching in her section, white and trembling, and dreading every instant a deadly bolt which would bring swift destruction and annihilation to her, yet too proud and sensitive to confess her fear and seek the reassuring companionship of some fellow traveler.
The heavens were so thickly overcast, and the rain descended in such torrents it seemed almost like night in the car, and the porter began to light the lamps.
He had only half-completed his task when there burst upon the affrighted ears of the awe-stricken passengers within the train a startling, warning whistle from the engine, then a sudden shock and crash, followed by shrieks and cries of men, women, and children.
On this same afternoon, while “the Limited” was speeding on its way from Boston to New York, a youth of perhaps seventeen years might have been seen toiling beneath the blazing sun in a hay-field, adjoining the grounds surrounding a stately mansion, and which was located on the outskirts of a beautiful country town not far from New Haven.
Every now and then the young man would glance anxiously up at a small cloud that was floating along the western horizon, and every time he looked it seemed to have grown larger and larger. Then he would fall to work again with fresh vigor, apparently unmindful of the broiling heat and of the great beads of perspiration which rolled over his face and dropped upon the ground.
He was working alone, and it did not seem possible that he would be able to get all the hay in the field into cocks and covered with caps before the storm would be upon him. But there was a resolution in every glance of his eye, determination in every vigorous movement of his body, and he pressed on, while the cloud grew, mounting higher and higher in the heavens, while vivid flashes of lightning, followed by the heavy roll of thunder, gave warning that the storm was coming nearer and nearer.