"I have found Paul," she whispered. "We must leave the train at the next station."
Now, all that day Paul Planet, for some strange psychological reason which he could not have explained, had felt conscious of his mother's nearness. Yet she was in New York, he reasoned and fear smote his heart lest sickness or accident had befallen her.
"Rest—for two hours."
Down along the marching line of soldiers the order was repeated. Planet heard it and fell out with alacrity. He heard himself detailed for temporary duty with a corporal's guard to unload automobile trucks. A troop train rushed by and a waiting passenger train pulled slowly out from a siding.
Planet glanced up. From the window of the latter train a face looked forth—a hand waved. Was he dreaming? Surely that was his mother's face he had seen! He dashed forward. The face was very distinct now. Impulsively he laid his finger across his lips as his mother had been wont to do when, as a child, she had desired him to remain silent. If the face at the window was that of his mother they must be discreet or she would never be permitted to join him.
"My mother was on that train," he confided to the soldier beside him. The man laughed.
"Impossible," he exclaimed. "You have seen a vision."
But Paul Planet had not seen a vision. Two miles further on, when the train had come to a halt at the little village station, Mme. Planet almost pulled her protesting mother of seventy down the steps. The guards also protested.
"Your passports, madame? Where are your passports?" they asked.
"My passports?" she repeated. "Oh, monsieur, I am so excited I do not know. There are passports there—papers—anything you want—in that bag."