the workings of the spirit life became partly transparent and luminous, and I seemed to see poetic fancy and noble thoughts weaving their wondrous webs back somewhere in the fastnesses of the soul.  And then I glanced around at the other occupants of the car; and, fancy being alert, all their faces reminded me of so many masks, with the real individual sheltered behind in its own secure fastness, and all the while industriously weaving the web of life; always vigilant, ever throwing the shuttle; whether wisely or foolishly, only the resultant action could determine.  But the faces grew indistinct; the steady movement back and forth of the writer’s hand no longer interested me, for I was asleep.  I do not know how long I had slept.  My hat had slipped to the floor; my heavy coils of hair, usually difficult to keep in proper control, had unloosened by the constant motion of the car and fallen in heavy rings about my shoulders.  I opened my eyes suddenly to find that my guardian had put away his writing, and was standing near, regarding me, I fancied, with a look of displeasure.

“I did not mean to fall asleep,” I faltered, while I quickly coiled up my hair, and put on my hat.

“It is my fault you slept in this public place.  I had forgotten about you.”

I looked at him with an admiration almost amounting to awe, thinking how engrossed he must have become in his own thoughts to have forgotten me so perfectly; and then I speculated on the irony of fate in placing one so unconventional as I under the care of a man so exceedingly fastidious.

I was standing beside him.  In my excitement, when awakening, I had started to my feet, but with difficulty maintained my position; for my head was dizzy with the sudden start from sound sleep, together with the unaccustomed hour for traveling.  Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was past midnight.  I think Mr. Winthrop noticed my weariness, for he said, rather grimly: 

“It is too bad, having you out late two nights in succession.”

I remembered his gift for Mr. Bowen, and was silent.

“At the next station we will be able to change cars for New York.  The conductor tells me we shall only be compelled to wait a short time.”

“I will rest then until we get there,” I said, no doubt very wearily, for I felt not only dizzy, but slightly faint, and sank into my chair.  He looked down at me, and then said, in more gentle fashion than he had ever before addressed me: 

“I am very sorry, Medoline, to have caused you so much needless fatigue.”

I quite forgot my weariness then.  It was so comforting to know he could acknowledge regret for anything, and that his heart was not made of flint, as, unconfessed to myself, I had partly imagined.

I looked up brightly.  “I do not know if I am not rather glad than sorry that we have shown ourselves such forgetful travelers.  It will be something unusual to remember.”