“The mother is in the freight room.”

“What?” Mrs. Flaxman asked, looking a trifle alarmed.

“She is in her coffin.”  My lip trembled, and with difficulty I restrained my tears once more.

“How dreadful!” she murmured, and presently I saw her wiping away her own tears.

“And you were the only one brave enough to go to him in his trouble.  Medoline, I am proud of you, but ashamed of myself.”

“I couldn’t help going; he looked so distressed, and I could see he wasn’t fit to look after the baby.  Men are so useless about such things,” I said, giving Mr. Winthrop a humorous glance.

“Another case of widowers,” Mr. Winthrop whispered, as he bent his head near to mine; but I saw that he too was not unmoved, and the look he bestowed upon me was equal to a caress.

“I am going to speak to that poor man myself.”  Mrs. Flaxman said very energetically, after she had got her eyes dried.

She went, but very soon I saw her handkerchief in active service again.  They sat chatting a long time, while all the passengers seemed to have a growing interest in their fellow traveller and his little charge.  The latter wakened while Mrs. Flaxman was still lingering beside the bereaved father.  It cried at first; but she soon got him so comfortable and content, that he was laughing and cooing into the wintry looking faces of his father and new nurse.  I wanted to have the dear little fellow in my own arms, he had such a bright, intelligent face, and his smile was so sunny; but I could not muster courage to go and ask for him.

Mrs. Flaxman probably noticed my wistful look, for she presently returned to her own seat bringing him with her.  She had scarcely left the father’s side when a white-haired, kindly-faced old gentleman at the farther end of the car got up and came stumbling along, and took a seat beside him.  The poor fellow winced.  He shrank, no doubt, from opening his wound afresh for another stranger to probe.  But there was something so sympathetic in the old man’s face, and the hearty shake of the hand that he gave without even speaking, that I concluded he would do more good than harm.  After sitting a little while in silence, I overheard him telling how he had heard of his trouble through the conductor.  I had not asked him anything about his wife’s death, that seemed a grief too sacred to explain to a perfect stranger; but he had told Mrs. Flaxman all, and I sat listening with a strong desire to cry while she repeated the story to us.

“His wife died very suddenly,” she said, “and they were all strangers where they lived; but every one, he said, was so kind.  He is taking his baby home to his mother.  They live a little way out of Cavendish.  He said he knew us; and was never so surprised at anything in his life as when a beautiful young lady, like you, traveling, too, with Mr. Winthrop, came and took his baby.  Everybody was looking so crossly at the baby, he had just begun to feel as if there was no sympathy for him in all this world full of strangers; but, when you came, there was a great load taken off his heart.  I mean after this to be more on the watch to help others.”