Helen Steele laughed outright and closed her book as the waiter passed on.
“He would hate to afford us comfort,” she commented, and glanced out of the window.
At that instant three prolonged blasts on the locomotive siren came back to them.
“Wait for the answer,” the missionary said listening. “We’ll see how right is our dismal friend.”
They waited in silence. And presently, faint and far off, came an answering single hoot from the signal station down on the river.
“All clear. Jim’s right, and our fears are groundless,” sighed Helen. “I do hope the flats will be all right, too. It’s good to be getting home.”
“Good?” Again came the man’s ready laugh. “Think of it, dear. From Montreal to Fort Sura we ran to transcontinental schedule. It’s taken us thirty-six hours already on the run home, and we aren’t there yet by more than twelve hours. It’s enough to depress a saint.”
The grinding of brakes under them added to their confidence.
“The descent,” the missionary commented, preparing to return to his reading.
But Helen wanted to talk. She was no less earnest in her work than her husband. And the journey home had been a time of profound yearning.