“But I haven’t any ‘trouble,’” persisted the Youngish Girl with brisk cheerfulness.  “Why, I haven’t any trouble at all!  Why, I don’t know but what I’d just as soon tell you all about it.  Maybe I really ought to tell somebody about it.  Maybe—­anyway, it’s a good deal easier to tell a stranger than a friend.  Maybe it would really do me good to hear how it sounds out loud.  You see, I’ve never done anything but whisper it—­just to myself—­before.  Do you remember the wreck on the Canadian Pacific Road last year?  Do you?  Well—­I was in it!”

“Gee!” said the Traveling Salesman. “’Twas up on just the edge of Canada, wasn’t it?  And three of the passenger coaches went off the track?  And the sleeper went clear over the bridge?  And fell into an awful gully?  And caught fire besides?”

“Yes,” said the Youngish Girl.  “I was in the sleeper.”

Even without seeming to look at her at all, the Traveling Salesman could see quite distinctly that the Youngish Girl’s knees were fairly knocking together and that the flesh around her mouth was suddenly gray and drawn, like an old person’s.  But the little persistent desire to laugh off everything still flickered about the corners of her lips.

“Yes,” she said, “I was in the sleeper, and the two people right in front of me were killed; and it took almost three hours, I think, before they got any of us out.  And while I was lying there in the darkness and mess and everything, I cried—­and cried—­and cried.  It wasn’t nice of me, I know, nor brave, nor anything, but I couldn’t seem to help it—­underneath all that pile of broken seats and racks and beams and things.

“And pretty soon a man’s voice—­just a voice, no face or anything, you know, but just a voice from somewhere quite near me, spoke right out and said:  ’What in creation are you crying so about?  Are you awfully hurt?’ And I said—­though I didn’t mean to say it at all, but it came right out—­’N-o, I don’t think I’m hurt, but I don’t like having all these seats and windows piled on top of me,’ and I began crying all over again.  ‘But no one else is crying,’ reproached the Voice.—­’And there’s a perfectly good reason why not,’ I said.  ’They’re all dead!’—­’O—­h,’ said the Voice, and then I began to cry harder than ever, and principally this time, I think, I cried because the horrid, old red plush cushions smelt so stale and dusty, jammed against my nose.

“And then after a long time the Voice spoke again and it said, ’If I’ll sing you a little song, will you stop crying?’ And I said, ’N-o, I don’t think I could!’ And after a long time the Voice spoke again, and it said, ‘Well, if I’ll tell you a story will you stop crying?’ And I considered it a long time, and finally I said, ’Well, if you’ll tell me a perfectly true story—­a story that’s never, never been told to any one before—­I’ll try and stop!’