"Never mind," said the gentleman, reassuringly. "Unless you have friends aboard the train to be troubled about you, I will take you back to your car presently."
"I have no one—I am traveling alone," Edith responded, and flushing slightly, as she encountered the gaze of earnest admiration which he bestowed upon her.
The gentleman's face lighted at her reply.
"Then would it be presuming upon your kindness too much to ask you to remain with my wife?" he inquired. "I am perfectly helpless, like most men, when any one is ill and we know no one on the train."
"I will gladly stay, and do whatever I can for her," eagerly returned Edith, who felt that it would be a great relief and safeguard if she could complete her journey under the protection of these prepossessing people; while, too, it would give her something to think of and keep her from dwelling upon her own sorrows.
As Edith, from time to time, continued her ministering to the injured foot, rubbing it with alcohol, to reduce the inflammation, she was questioned by her new acquaintances, and informed them of her recent bereavement and of her lonely condition, and stated that she was going to Boston to try to secure employment.
She was applying the alcohol when the lady said:
"That will do for the present, Miss —— What shall I call you, please?" she remarked, signifying that she did not care to have the foot rubbed any longer at that time.
"Edith Allen—Oh, what have I done?" the young girl suddenly cried out, in a voice of pain, as the woman winced and gave vent to a moan beneath her touch.
"Nothing—do not be troubled, dear—only you happened to touch a very tender spot," exclaimed the lady, trying to smile reassuringly into the girl's startled face. "So your name is Edith Allen; that sounds very nice," she continued. "I am fond of pretty names as I am of pretty people."