A cinder
stung her face, and when she lifted her hand to the spot, she saw
that her glove was black with grime. With a little shiver of
disgust she went back to her seat and with her face to the
blackness rushing past her window she sat brooding--brooding. Why
had Hale not met her? He had said he would and she had written him
when she was coming and had telegraphed him at the station in New
York when she started. Perhaps he HAD changed. She recalled that
even his letters had grown less frequent, shorter, more hurried
the past year--well, he should have his chance. Always, however,
her mind kept going back to the people at the station and to her
people in the mountains. They were the same, she kept repeating to
herself--the very same and she was one of them. And always she
kept thinking of her first trip to Lonesome Cove after her
awakening and of what her next would be. That first time Hale had
made her go back as she had left, in home-spun, sun-bonnet and
brogans. There was the same reason why she should go back that way
now as then--would Hale insist that she should now? She almost
laughed aloud at the thought.
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