I wonder now how many moons
  In just such white have died;
  I wonder how the stars divide
  Among themselves their share of light;
  And if there were great years of night
    Before the earth saw noons.

    I wonder why each moon, each sun,
  Which ever has been or shall be,
  In this day’s sun and moon I see;
  I think perhaps all of the old
  Is hidden in each new day’s hold;
    So the first day is not yet done!

    And then I think—­our dust is spent
  Before the balances are swung;
  Shall we be loneliest among
  God’s living creatures?  Shall we dare
  To speak in this eternal air
    The only discontent?

Then she shut the book resolutely, and sat up straight with a little laugh, saying to herself, “This is a pretty beginning for a business journey!”

Far better than you knew, sweet Draxy!  The great successes of life are never made by the men and women who have no poetic comprehension in their souls.

Draxy’s first night was spent at the house of a brother of Captain Melville’s, to whom her uncle had given her a letter.  All went smoothly, and her courage rose.  The next day at noon she was to change cars in one of the great railroad centres; as she drew near the city she began to feel uneasy.  But her directions were explicit, and she stepped bravely out into the dismal, dark, underground station, bought her ticket, and walked up and down on the platform with her little valise in her hand, waiting for the train.

In a few moments it thundered in, enveloped in a blinding, stifling smoke.  The crowd of passengers poured out.  “Twenty minutes for refreshments,” was shouted at each car, and in a moment more there was a clearing up of the smoke, and a lull in the trampling of the crowd.  Draxy touched the conductor on the arm.

“Is this the train I am to take, sir?” she said showing him her ticket.

He glanced carelessly at it.  “No, no,” said he; “this is the express; don’t stop there.  You must wait till the afternoon accommodation.”

“But what time will that train get there?” said Draxy, turning pale.

“About ten o’clock, if it’s on time,” said the conductor, walking away.  He had not yet glanced at Draxy, but at her “Oh, what shall I do!” he turned back; Draxy’s face held him spellbound, as it had held many a man before.  He stepped near her, and taking the ticket from her hand, turned it over and over irresolutely.  “I wish I could stop there, Miss,” he said.  “Is it any one who is sick?”—­for Draxy’s evident distress suggested but one explanation.

“Oh no,” replied Draxy, trying in vain to make her voice steady.  “But I am all alone, and I know no one there, and I am afraid—­it is so late at night.  My friends thought I should get there before dark.”

“What are you going for, if you don’t know anybody?” said the conductor, in a tone less sympathizing and respectful.  He was a man more used to thinking ill than well of people.