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 How was it this morning with her?

Jay turned upon his side and closed his eyes in endeavor to put it out of his mind. No use. The train started and he lifted the window blind, which disclosed to him a station roof dimly etched before a gray dawn and a platform aswirl with snow which made big, gleaming balls of the street lamps.

The city must be Elkhart, two hours east of Chicago. He drew down the blind, packed his pillow to his best position for sleeping and closed his eyes only to hear his name repeated in the aisle:

"Mr. Rountree . . . Mr. J. A. Rountree . . ."

The man, speaking the name, went past. He was the stenographer who yesterday afternoon had asked Jay, when making the same request of other passengers, to give his name and berth number in case telegrams were expected. Jay had replied that no messages would come for him; but it must be that one had been handed aboard at Elkhart.

He looked between the curtains and saw the man with telegrams halt at the end of the car. Jay did not call because the idea had seized him that it was from Lida; and if it was, he wanted a minute or so to think before taking it. The morning on the train was not like yesterday forenoon with her in his arms. He required a bit of preparation.

The man disappeared; but he would return after a while or could be hunted up. Likely, Jay thought, the telegram was not from Lida at all. Probably it was from his father. Most telegrams were. The words of a recent one ran in Jay's mind, as he let the curtains close. He re-