Dorothy sat quietly looking out of the window into the darkness, her cheek supported by her hand and shaded from her brother.  She was perfectly cheerful and composed, but Julius guessed rightly enough that it was not a happy hour for her.  She had come more than half-way to meet a man who had asked it of her, only to have him fail to appear.  Of course there was an explanation—­of course; but—­well, it was not a happy hour.  The red roses on her breast drooped a very little; their counterparts in her cheeks paled slowly as the train flew on.  An hour went by.

Some miles after stopping at a station the train slowed down again.

“Where are we?” queried Julius, peering out of the window, his hand shading his eyes.  “Nowhere in particular, I should say.”

The train stopped, began to move again, backing; it presently became apparent that it was taking a siding.

“That’s funny for this train,” said Julius, and went out on the rear platform to investigate.

In a minute or two another train appeared in the distance behind, rushed on toward them, slowed down not quite to a stop, and was instantly under way again.  A minute later their own train began to move once more.

“Perhaps he’s chartered a special and caught up,” said Julius, returning to his sister.  “Perhaps he’s made so much money down in Colombia that he can afford to hire specials.  That was a special, all right—­big engine and one Pullman.  We wouldn’t be sidetracked for anything less important, I’m quite sure.”

He stretched himself comfortably in his chair again with a furtive glance at his sister.  He sat with his back to the car, facing her.  He now saw her look down the car with an intent expression; then suddenly he saw the splendid colour surge into her face.  Her eyes took fire—­and Julius swung about in his chair to find out the cause.  Then he sprang up, and if he did not shout his relief and joy it was because well-trained young men, even though they be not yet out of college, do not give vent to their emotions in public.

“By George!” he said under his breath.  “How in time has he made it?”

But Waldron, as he came back through the car, was not looking at Julius.  Dorothy had risen and was standing by her chair, and though the newly arrived traveller shook hands with Julius as he met him in the aisle, it was only to look past him at the figure at the back of the car.  The next instant his hand had grasped hers, and he was gazing as straight down into her eyes as a man may who has seen such eyes for the last nine months only in his dreams.  “You came!” he said; and there were wonder and gratitude and joy in his voice, so that it was not quite steady.

She nodded.  “There seemed to be nothing else to do,” she answered, and her smile was enchanting.

“Did you want to do anything else?”

There must certainly have been something about him which inspired honesty.  Quite naturally, from the feminine point of view, Dorothy would have liked not to answer this direct and meaning question just then.  But, as once before, the necessity of speaking to this man only the truth was instantly strong upon her.  Deep down, evade the issue as she might by saying that she would have preferred to have him come to her, she knew that she was glad to do this thing for him, since the other had been impossible.