This big church of St. Armand has a great pointed roof of shining tin.  It is a bright and conspicuous object always in that landscape; under summer and winter sun it glistens like some huge lighthouse reflector.  Ever since, whenever Zilda goes out on the station platform, for a breath of air, for a moment’s rest and refreshing, or, on business intent, to chide the loungers there, the roof of this church, at a half-mile’s distance, twinkles brightly before her eyes, set in green fields or in a snow-buried world; and every time it catches her eye it brings to her mind more or less distinctly that she has in her own way tested religion and found it true, because the particular boon which she had demanded at this time was granted.

It was a happy morn of May; the snow had just receded from the land, leaving it very wet, and Spring was pushing on all the business she had to do with almost visible speed.  The early train came in from Montreal as usual, and who should step out of it but Gilby himself!  He was a little stouter, a little more bald, but he skipped down upon the platform, radiant as to smile and the breadth of his gold watch-chain, and attired in a check coat which Zilda thought was the most perfect thing in costume which she had ever beheld.

In a flash of thought it came to Zilda that there would be more than a momentary happiness for her.  ’Ah, Monsieur Geelby, do you know that the river has cut into the line three miles away, and that this train can go no farther till it is mended.’

Gilby was distinctly annoyed; he had indeed left town by the earlier of the two morning trains in order to stop an hour and take breakfast at St. Armand; he had been glad of the chance of doing that, of seeing Chaplot and his daughter and the others; but to be stopped at St. Armand a whole day—­he made exhibition of his anger, which Zilda took very meekly.  Why had the affair not been telegraphed?  Why were busy men like himself brought out of the city when they could not get on to do their work?

There were other voices besides Gilby’s to rail; there were other voices besides Zilda’s to explain the disaster.  In the midst of the babel Zilda slipped away to make muffins hastily for Gilby’s breakfast.  Her heart was singing within her, but it was a tremulous song, half dazed with delight, half frightened, fearing that with his great cleverness he would see some way to proceed on his journey although she saw none.

When she came out of the kitchen with the muffins in her hand her sunshine suddenly clouded.  Gilby, unconscious that a special breakfast was preparing for him, had hastily swallowed coffee and walked on to the site of the breakdown to see for himself how long the mending would take.

It was as if one, looking through long hours for the ending of night, had seen the sunrise, only to see the light go out suddenly again in darkness.  Zilda felt that her heart was broken.  Her disappointment grew upon her for an hour, then she could no longer keep back the tears; because she had no place in which to weep, she began to walk away from the hotel down the line.  There was no one to notice her going; she was as free to go and come as the wild canaries that hopped upon the budding bramble vines growing upon the railway embankment, or the blue-breasted swallows that sat on the telegraph wire.