“Goodness!” she thought, sitting up suddenly, “what is the matter?” The curtain flew up and her startled eyes blinked out upon the glaring world.

There was not a house in sight as far as her eyes could range forward and behind.  Instead, a wide sweep of farm lands partially submerged by the flood water of many rains.  Far away there were brown hills and a long army of tall trees standing at attention,—­a bleak prospect despite the cheery intentions of the sun, which lurked behind the hills.  Despondent cornstalks of last year’s growth stood guard over the soggy fields; drenched, unhappy tufts of grass, and forlorn but triumphant reeds arose here and there from the watery wastes, asserting their victory over a dismantled winter.  It was not a glorious view that met the gaze of the bride on her wedding morn.

Strangest of all, the train was so quiet, so utterly inactive, that an absurd feeling of loneliness grew upon her, gradually developing into the alarming certainty that she was the only living person in the world.  Then she heard men’s voices outside of the window; her relief was almost hysterical.  Scrambling out of the berth, she began a hasty, nervous toilet.  Three sharp pushes on the button brought the company’s ladies’ maid—­advertised as a part of the luxury and refinement which made the flyer “the finest train in the world.”

“What has happened?  Where are we?” she demanded, upon the entrance of the sleepy young coloured woman.

“The Pride River bridge is washed away, ma’am,” said the maid.  “We can’t go on no furder.”

“Dear me,” sighed Eleanor, turning to be buttoned at the back.  “And where is Pride River bridge—­or where was it, I mean?”

“’Bout twenty mile south of Omegon, ma’am—­miss.  The river’s a sight—­ highest ’at it’s ever been known.  It’s all over the bottoms.  This here train came mighty nigh running into it, too.  A boy flagged it just in time, ’bout five o’clock.”

“Have we been standing here a whole hour?”

“Yes, miss; right here.  They say we can’t go back till the section boss has examined the track in Baxter’s Cut.  Seems as though there’s some danger of a washout back yander.”

“Do you mean to say we are likely to stay here indefinitely?” gasped Eleanor.  “Ouch!  Be careful, please!”

“Oh, it won’t be long.  The porter says they’ve sent back over the line to telegraft for the section men.”

“Good Heavens, is there no station here?”

“No, ma’am; five miles back.  They’s one jest across the river, but it might as well be in Africa.”

“Be quick, please, and then send the conductor to me—­and the porter too,” urged Eleanor, in distress.

The porter was the first to arrive.

“Porter, will you go to Car 7 and see if the occupant of lower 4 is awake?  I am quite sure that is right, but if it should happen to be wrong, please let me know at once.”