"That's the pass over our road, ma'am. Are you ready?"
The light died away, and darkness fell in its place. My hand touched the stroke of one. Simmons awoke with a start and snatched his lantern. The whistle sounded down brakes; the train was due. He ran to the corner and shook the old woman.
"Wake up, marm; 'tis train time."
But she never heeded. He gave one look at the white set face, and, dropping his lantern, fled.
The up train halted, the conductor shouted "All aboard," but no one made a move that way.
The next morning, when the ticket agent came, he found her frozen to death. They whispered among themselves, and the coroner made out the verdict "apoplexy," and it was in some way hushed up.
But the last look on the sweet old face, lit up with a smile so unearthly, I keep with me yet; and when I think of the occurrence of that night, I know she went out on the other train, that never stopped at the poorhouse.