He dwelt with new interest on his resemblance to Weatherbee, and he told himself it was her constancy to David that had kept her safe.  Then it came over him that if Weatherbee had married her instead of the Spanish woman, that must have been an insurmountable barrier between them to-day.  As long as they lived, she must have remained sacred on her pedestal, out of reach.  But how nobly partisan she was; how ready to cross swords for Weatherbee’s wife.  That was the incredible test; her capacity for loving was great.

The porter was turning on the lights.  Tisdale moved a little and looked across the aisle.  For that one moment he was glad Weatherbee had made his mistake.  She was so incomparable, so adorable.  Any other woman must have lost attractiveness, shown at least the wear and tear of that mountain journey, but her weariness appealed to him as her buoyancy had not.  She had taken off her hat to rest her head on the high, cushioned back of the seat, and the drooping curves of her short upper lip, the blue shadows under those outward curling black lashes, roused a new emotion, the paternal, in the depths of his great heart.  He wished to smooth her ruffled hair; it was so soft, so vital; under the electric light it seemed to flash little answering blue sparks.  Then his glance fell to her relaxed palms, open in her lap, and he felt a quick solicitude over a scratch the barbed fence must have made on one small, determined thumb.

They had had trouble with the horses in the vale.  Nip, who had broken away during the storm, had been rounded in by the goat-woman and her returning collie.  The travelers found her trying to extricate his halter which had caught, holding him dangerously close, in the wire fencing.  It had taken caution and long patience to free him, and more to hitch the excited team.  The delay had caused them to miss the westbound evening train; they were forced to drive back and spend the night at Wenatchee.  And the morning Oriental Limited was crowded with delegates from some mystic order on an annual pilgrimage.  There was no room in the observation car; Tisdale was able to secure only single seats on opposite sides of the sleeper.

The train rumbled through the great tunnel and came to a brief stop outside the west portal.  It was snowing.  Some railroad laborers, repairing the track, worked in overcoats and sweaters, hat brims drawn down, collars turned up against the bitter wind.  The porter opened the transoms, and a piercing draught pulled through the smoky, heat-laden car.  Miss Armitage sat erect and inhaled a full breath.  She looked across at Tisdale, and the sparkles broke softly in her eyes.  “It’s Wellington!” she exclaimed.  “In a moment we shall be racing down to Scenic Hot Springs and on along the Skykomish—­home.”  Then she stopped the porter.  “Bring me a telegraph blank, please.  I want to send a message from the Springs.”