The white-haired old father lived at Garrisons, and was a preacher of the Gospel, like his son. He was leaving the depot as her train pulled up. She easily recognized him, because several times during his son’s pastorate at Balhang he had been to see him, staying a week at a time, and preaching once on the Sunday on each occasion.
At Duchess Junction she had to change trains. To her joy, she met no one from Balhang; there was not a soul at the depot whom she even knew by sight.
Just before her train reached Balhang she donned a thick brown gauze veil. No one could see her face through this to recognize it. There would be nothing to detain her at the depot, for her baggage was all “expressed.”
The train stopped; she alighted. Several people peered hard at her, the depot manager especially, as he took her check, but no one recognized her. She passed on. Twenty yards from the depot she met Judge Anstey.
She stopped him with a “Good day, Judge; can I speak with you?”
“Certainly, madam,” the official replied genially.
“Come aside, Judge,” she whispered. “I don’t want anyone to recognize me, or to hear what I am saying to you, should people pass.”
As he moved on by her side in the direction she wished, she whispered:
“I have put on this thick veil, Judge, so as not to be recognized. I am Madge Finisterre.”
“Du say!” he gasped. “I knew the voice, but could not recall whose it was. I hadn’t heard a breath of your coming home, Miss Madge.”