Few passengers turned to look at the little figure that entered the car at the way-side station at so early an hour of the morning, and Ida May cowered quickly down into the first seat. The clothes under the long, dark cloak were saturated, but no one could see that, nor notice how damp and matted were the curling rings of dark hair which the hood of the cloak but half concealed. The hours crept on as the express whirled over the rails; but Ida May paid no heed to time.

But hunger at last began to tell upon her, and she[48] eagerly hailed a boy who passed through the train with a basket of sandwiches on his arm.

She looked at the coins she still held loosely in her hand, and found to her dismay that, with the exception of two pieces of silver, she held a handful of gold dollars.

"His pocket-pieces," she sobbed. "Oh, if I had known that, I would have refused to take them; but—but I will work and earn money, and—and pay him back double their value. Poor fellow—poor fellow!" and she laid her face on the window-sill, sobbing as though her heart would break.

Suddenly she heard a voice in the seat back of her say:

"You seem very much distressed, poor girl. Is there any way in which I can serve you?"

The deep, musical voice was so kind, so humane, so sympathetic, that Ida May turned around with a start to see who it was who had asked the question.

She saw directly back of her a fair, handsome young man who had evidently just entered the car, and who was depositing his grip-sack and umbrella in the rack above his head.

At the first glance a faint shriek broke from her lips. She was just about to cry out, "Royal Ainsley—great Heaven!—do we meet again?" when she saw her error in time. Although bearing a certain resemblance to the lover who had so cruelly betrayed her, a second glance told her it was not him.

It was a moment ere she recovered herself sufficiently to answer, then she faltered, piteously:

"I am in sorrow, sir, so great that I do not think[49] any young girl but me could ever pass through it—and live."

"I do not wish to pry into your private affairs," said the young man, courteously, "but I wish to repeat, if you will tell me what troubles you, and I can be of service to you, I shall be only too pleased. Although a stranger, you will find me worthy of your confidence, my poor child!"

There was something about the handsome, kindly, blue-eyed young man that caused Ida May's heart to go out to him at once. His was a face that women always trusted, and no one had ever had cause to regret it.

"I am going to New York in search of work," faltered the girl, clasping her little hands closely together.

"That is certainly reason enough to weep," he replied earnestly. "May I ask if you have friends there to whom you are going until you can find employment?"

Ida May shook her head, her breast heaved, her white lips quivered, while great tears welled up to the great dark eyes, so like purple velvet pansies drowned in rain.

"I have no friends—no one. I am all alone in the world, sir," she sobbed. "My mother is dead—dead. I have just left her grave. She and I were all in all to each other; now she is gone, and I—Oh, only the angels know that no sorrow is so bleak, so pitiful, so awful, as to be all alone in the world."

"I can understand the situation perfectly," he answered in a low voice, "and I can pity you. Although not quite alone in the world myself, I am almost as badly off. But to return to yourself: I may be able[50] to serve you. What kind of employment were you intending to search for? In some store, or dress-making or millinery establishment?" he queried.

She looked blankly up into his fair, handsome, earnest face.

"I do not know how to do anything of that kind," she answered, simply. "I thought perhaps I might find employment in some telegraph office."

"Why, yes, indeed. I wonder that that idea did not occur to me before. A friend of mine is superintendent of a large branch of the Western union, up Broadway. I will give you a note to him, and I have no doubt he will do all in his power to aid you, providing he has a vacancy."

"Oh, thank you a thousand times, sir," cried Ida May, thankfully; "I shall be so grateful—oh, so very grateful!"

"Mind, it is not a certainty, you know," admonished the stranger earnestly; "I can only write the letter. But that is not assuring you of a situation—we can only hope for it."

He tore out a leaf from his memorandum, and taking a gold pencil from his vest pocket, hastily jotted down a few lines upon it.

"I am sorry I am not going through to New York; otherwise I would take you there myself," he said, courteously, as he folded up the note and handed it to her.

At that moment his station was reached. He had barely time to touch his hat to her, gather up his parcels, and alight, ere the train moved out again. The young man looked after it and the sweet, tearful young[51] face pressed against one of the windows until it was out of sight.

"B............