“May I?” he said.

“Cut my hair?” she asked.  “Oh, no!”

“Just a little, in one place.  I think I can do it so that it won’t show.  There’s so much of it.”

“Please,” she answered, yielding.

He was deft.  She sat quiet and soothed under his ministerings.  Completed, the bandage looked not too unworkmanlike, and was cool and comforting to the hot throb of the wound.

“Our doctor went back on the train, worse luck!” he said.

“I don’t want any other doctor,” she murmured.  “I’d rather have you.”

“But I’m not a doctor.”

“No,” she acquiesced.  “Who are you?  Did you tell me?  You are one of the passengers, aren’t you?”

“I’m the station-agent at Manzanita.”

For a moment she looked at him wonderingly.  “Are you?  I don’t seem to understand.  My head is very queer.”

“Don’t try to.  Here’s some tea and crackers.”

“I’m starved,” she said.

With subtle stirrings of delight, he watched her eat the bit that he had prepared for her while heating the water.  But he was wise enough to know that she must not have much while the extent of her injury was still undetermined.

“Are you wet?” he inquired.

She nodded.  “I haven’t been dry since the flood.”

“I have a room with a real stove in it over the station.  I’ll build a fire, and you must take off your wet things and go to bed and sleep.  If you need anything you can hammer on the floor.”

“But you—­”

“I’ll be in my office, below.  I’m on night duty to-night,” said he, tactfully fabricating.

“Very well.  You’re awfully kind.”

He adjusted the oil-stove, threw a warmed blanket over her feet, and hurried to his room to build the promised fire.  When he came back she smiled.

“You are good to me!  It’s stupid of me—­my head is so queer—­did you say you were—­”

“The station-agent.  My name is Banneker.  I’m responsible to the company for your safety and comfort.  You’re not to worry about it, nor think about it, nor ask any questions.”

“No,” she agreed, and rose.

He threw the blanket around her shoulders.  At the protective touch she slipped her hand through his arm.  So they went out into the night.

Mounting the stairs, she stumbled, and for a moment he felt the firm, warm pressure of her body against him.  It shook him strangely.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.  And, a moment later, “Good-night, and thank you.”

Taking the hand which she held out, he returned her good-night.  The door closed.  He turned away and was halfway down the flight when a sudden thought recalled him.  He tapped on the door.

“What is it?” asked the serene music of the voice.

“I don’t want to bother you, but there’s just one thing I forgot.  Please give me your name.”

“What for?” returned the voice doubtfully.