Frank nodded, and, without speaking, deliberately wiped his oily hands in a bunch of waste, took a look at his grim, dusty face in a narrow little mirror that hung beside the steam gauge, pulled off his short frock, put on a coat, changed his little black, greasy cap for a soft felt, taking these "dress-up" articles from the tender-box, where an engineer has something stowed away for all emergencies, and went back to the cars as requested.
He entered the car and made his way to the seat where the conductor sat talking to a bright-looking little girl, about nine years old, oddly dressed in a woman's shawl and bonnet.
Several of the passengers were grouped around the seat, evidently much interested in the child, who wore a sad, prematurely old countenance, but seemed to be neither timid nor confused.
"Here is the engineer," said the conductor, kindly, as Frank approached.
She held up her hand to him, with a winsome smile breaking over her pinched little face, and said:
"My papa was an engineer before he became sick and went to live on a farm in Montana. He is dead, and my mamma is dead. She died first, before Willie and Susie. My papa used to tell me that after he should be dead there would be no one to take care of me, and then I must get on the cars and go to his old home in Vermont. And he said, 'cause I hadn't any ticket, I must ask for the engineer and tell him I am James Kendrick's little girl, and that he used to run on the M. & S. road."
The pleading blue eyes were now suffused with tears; but she did not cry after the manner of childhood in general.
Engineer Frank stooped down and kissed her very tenderly; and then, as he brushed the tears from his own eyes, said:
"Well, my dear, so you are little Bessie Kendrick. I rather think a merciful Providence guided you on board this train."
Then, turning around to the group of passengers, he went on: