“Do.  Tell me all about everybody.”

“Will you answer?”

“Now and then.”

“You are—­” He stopped, with a half impatient movement of his broad shoulders.

“I’m Sally Lane.”  She said this very distinctly, even though both were speaking under their breath.  Then she laughed, with a delicate touch of defiance.

“You certainly are,” he agreed.  “No doubt in the world of that.  But I want you to know I’m Jarvis Burnside, and that stands for something too—­something positive—­and permanent.  My letters will be signed by that name.”

“Mine—­if I write any—­now and then—­will be signed by mine—­The train is moving.  Good-by—­old friend!”

She was a slim maid to oppose so colossal a resistance as she did to anything in the least suggestive to sentiment in the leave-taking.  Oppose it, however, did the small hand which drew itself away with decision, the pretty lips which smiled again that coolly friendly smile, the blue-black eyes which were steady as ever in their straight look.  Max, peering in upon the two to tell Jarvis to come along, saw his sister break down in her self-command, but only at sight of himself.  As Jarvis turned away she ran after him to reach beyond him and clutch her brother’s arm for one quick pressure, with the low cry, “Oh, Max—­please—­please—­write to me often!”

As Max jumped off, Jarvis turned again.  Sally was upon the platform.  “That almost makes me wish I were a brother,” said he rapidly, from the bottom step, looking straight up at her.  He prepared to drop off. “But not quite” he added—­and swung himself off and out of sight.

Back in her berth, the little electric side-light on, Sally opened her bundles.  Their contents made her feel like laughing and crying both together, all by herself, there on the fast train flying southward through the night.  Janet’s superb grapes, Mrs. Ferry’s preserved Canton ginger, Donald Ferry’s little book of verse, with the ribbon mark opening it at “My Garden,” all pleased her greatly, each in its way.  Then there was a fascinating little traveller’s work-box from Josephine, a letter writing-case from Mrs. Burnside, an ink-pencil from Max, a package of current magazines from Alec, a box of chocolates from Bob.  The cards and merry messages accompanying these remembrances made pleasant reading, and Sally put them all together in her handbag, that she might look them over many times.

Jarvis’s box she did not open till the last.  Why, might be a subject for speculation.  Does one leave the most interesting letter or package till the last—­or does one eagerly open it first?  When everything else had been disposed of Sally’s fingers untied the cord slowly, she lifted the cover with apparent reluctance, she drew aside the sheltering sheets of green tissue as if she feared to disclose that which they protected.  But then, when the bright light at her side shone in upon fresh tints of pink and white and lilac, she drew one deep breath and buried her face in the mass.