“I have come to ask for some fresh milk for a baby in the emigrant car,” said the stranger.  “Looks sick, and the mother’s been crying.  They’ve only got tinned milk in the restaurant and the child won’t touch it.”

“Sorry it’s that particular, sir.  But I’ve got only what I want.”

“Yerkes!” cried Elizabeth Merton, in the background.  “Of course the baby must have it.  Give it to the gentleman, please, at once.”

The stranger removed his hat and stepped into the tiny dining-room where Elizabeth was standing.  He was tall and fair-skinned, with a blonde moustache, and very blue eyes.  He spoke—­for an English ear—­with the slight accent which on the Canadian side of the border still proclaims the neighbourhood of the States.

“I am sorry to trouble you, madam,” he said, with deference.  “But the child seems very weakly, and the mother herself has nothing to give it.  It was the conductor of the restaurant car who sent me here.”

“We shall be delighted,” said Lady Merton, eagerly.  “May I come with you, if you are going to take it?  Perhaps I could do something for the mother.”

The stranger hesitated a moment.

“An emigrant car full of Galicians is rather a rough sort of place—­especially at this early hour in the morning.  But if you don’t mind—­”

“I don’t mind anything.  Yerkes, is that all the milk?”.

“All to speak of, my lady,” said Yerkes, nimbly retreating to his den.

Elizabeth shook her head as she looked at the milk.  But her visitor laughed.

“The baby won’t get through that to-day.  It’s a regular little scarecrow.  I shouldn’t think the mother’ll rear it.”

They stepped out on to the line.  The drizzle descended on Lady Merton’s bare head and grey travelling dress.

“You ought to have an umbrella,” said the Canadian, looking at her in some embarrassment.  And he ran back to the car for one.  Then, while she carried the milk carefully in both hands, he held the umbrella over her, and they passed through the groups of passengers who were strolling disconsolately up and down the line in spite of the wet, or exchanging lamentations with others from two more stranded trains, one drawn up alongside, the other behind.

Many glances were levelled at the slight Englishwoman, with the delicately pale face, and at the man escorting her.  Elizabeth meanwhile was putting questions.  How long would they be detained?  Her brother with whom she was travelling was not at all strong.  Unconsciously, perhaps, her voice took a note of complaint.

“Well, we can’t any of us cross—­can we?—­till they come to some bottom in the sink-hole,” said the Canadian, interrupting her a trifle bluntly.

Elizabeth laughed.  “We may be here then till night.”

“Possibly.  But you’ll be the first over.”

“How?  There are some trains in front.”

“That doesn’t matter.  They’ll move you up.  They’re very vexed it should have happened to you.”