Irene was on the train bound for Charleston. She was seated in one of the big easy-chairs in the parlor-car, idly scanning a magazine and looking out at the dingy and sordid outskirts of Atlanta through which the train was moving with increasing speed. The conductor passed, punched her ticket, and went on. He had glanced at her with masculine interest, for she showed by her sedate dignity, smallest detail of attire, and every visible possession, that she was a passenger of distinction.

Presently Buckton came in at the front door and approached her. An exultant smile swept his flushed face as he bent down over her.

"Thank God, we are off!" he chuckled. "I was simply crazy at the station—first with fear that you would not come, and next that we'd be noticed, but I don't believe a soul recognized us. I was seated behind a newspaper in the waiting-room watching for you like a hawk. I saw you get out of the cab and come in. God, darling, you don't know how proud I felt to know that you were actually coming to me! At last you are mine—all mine; after all these years of agony you are mine!"

She raised a pair of eyes to his in which a haunting dread seemed to lie like a shadow. "Oh, I feel so queer!" she sighed. "I realized that we had to hide and dodge, but I did not like the role. For the first time in my life I felt mean and sneaking. Already I am worried about father and the boy—father, in particular. He is getting old and feeble. Perhaps the shock to him may seriously harm him."

Buckton smiled, but less freely. He sat down in the chair in front of her and turned it till he faced her. "We have no time to bother about them, dear," he said, passionately. "We deserve to live in happiness, and we are going to do it. I am so happy I can hardly speak. Oh, we are going to have a glorious time! You should have been mine long ago. Nature intended it. We are simply getting our dues."

"I am doing it solely for your sake," she faltered. "Because you've suffered so on my account."

"And not for your own sake? Don't put it that way, sweetheart." He took her hand; but, casting a furtive glance at the backs of the few other passengers in the car, she withdrew it.

"Don't," she protested, smiling. "We must be careful." She dropped a penetrating gaze into his amorous eyes, and applied her handkerchief to her drooping lips. "I've been thinking, Andy, about a certain thing more seriously since the train started than I ever did before. Do you know, many persons believe that if a woman acts—acts—well, as I am doing now, the man to whom she gives in will, down at the bottom of his heart, cease to respect and love her—in time—in time, I mean?"

"Bosh and tommyrot!" Buckton fairly glowed. "Never, never, when the case is like ours. We are simply doing our duty to ourselves. Love you? Why, I adore you! You have saved my life, darling. I would have killed myself. I've been on the very brink of it more than once. I've suffered agonies ever since you married. The birth of your child fairly drove me insane. I groveled in blackest despair. It made me feel that—that you were, or had been, actually his. Oh, it was awful! Don't regret our step. Think of what is before us. We'll stop in Charleston, see the quaint old town, go on to Savannah, stop a day or so, and then sail for New York. The ships are good, and at this season the sea is as smooth as glass. When we get to New York we will simply paint the town red, and if you wish, then, we'll go on to Europe. What could be more glorious? Why, the whole world is ours."

She smiled, almost sadly, and then, as if to avoid his gaze, she glanced out of the window. He saw her breast heave. He heard her sigh. "You are a man and I am a woman," she muttered. "I suppose that makes a difference. In a case like ours a man never is blamed by society, but the woman is. They class her with the lowest. Oh, won't they talk at home? Nothing else will be thought of for months. Old-fashioned persons will say it was the life we led. Do you suppose it could possibly—in any way—injure Dick's business?"

"How could it?" Buckton said, with caustic impatience. "What has this to do with his affairs?"

"Oh, I don't know!" She exhaled the words, heavily. "I have heard my father say that depositors sometimes take fright at the slightest things concerning the private lives of bankers. Andy, I would not like for this to—cost Dick a cent. I couldn't bear that."

"Do you think you ought to entertain such fine-spun ideas in regard to him when—when he is living as he is?"

"That has bothered me, too," she said, quickly. "Somehow I can't believe that he ever really went back to that woman—that is, to live with her. I met her only a week ago on the street. She looked straight at me, and, somehow, I was sure that he and she were not as they used to be. Call it intuition if you like, but intuition is sometimes reliable. It may have been by accident that they were together when you saw them out there. He takes lonely walks in all sorts of directions. He is a strange combination. His love for little Dick, his constant worrying about him is remarkable. It used to make me mad, but in a way I respected him for it."

"Let's not talk about him," Buckton implored. "All this rubbish is giving you the blues. They have called dinner. Let's go back to the dining-car. The service is fairly good on this line."

"I couldn't eat a bite," Irene answered.

"Well, let us go in, anyway. It will be a change," he said, "and will take your mind off this gloomy subject. Think of what is ahead of us, darling, not behind."

She rose, and, with a smile of resignation to his will, she followed him through the vestibule into the dining-car. As they went in they met a portly man who stood aside for them to pass.

"How are you, Mr. Buckton?" the man smiled, cordially.

"Oh, how are you?" Buckton answered, with a start and a rapid scrutiny of the passenger's face. Moving on, he secured seats at a table for two. As they sat down facing each other he noticed that the man, who had paid the cashier for his meal and was waiting for his change, was eying him and Irene with a curious, almost bold stare.

"Who is that man?" Irene questioned, rather coldly, as she spread out her napkin.

"His name is Hambright," Buckton answered, with assumed lightness. "He is a whisky salesman. Somebody brought him to the club the other night, and he told a lot of funny stories. He seems to have plenty of money; his house may give it to him for advertising purposes. He fairly throws it about to make acquaintances."

"I don't like his looks at all," Irene said, her lips curled in contempt. "Just then he stared at me in the most impertinent way. His hideous eyes actually twinkled. Do you suppose he could possibly know who I am?"

The compliment that every visitor to Atlanta would know her, at least by sight, rose to his lips, but he suppressed it as decidedly inappropriate to her mood.

"It isn't at all likely," Buckton answered, instead. "Besides, even if he did, what ground would he have for thinking that our being together on a train like this—you know what I mean."

"I know what you want to mean," Irene said, disconsolately. "I also know what such a creature as that would go out of his way to think."

"There, you are off again!" Buckton laughed in a mechanical tone, which betrayed his uneasiness. "You are going to keep me busy brushing away your fancies. I see that now. Pretty soon you will expect the engineer to shut off steam and come back to take a peep at us. Your imagination is getting the upper hand of you. Stop short now and smile like your true, sweet self. I am happy and care-free, and I want you to be so."

She said nothing, but gave him a faint, childlike smile. "You are a dear, good boy, Andy," she faltered. "I am going to try to be sensible. It isn't the first time persons have acted this way and come out all right, is it? I don't want anything but tea. Get a pot. I think it will do me good."

Half an hour later they returned to their seats in the other car. The tea seemed to have exhilarated her, for she smiled more freely. There was a touch of rising color in her cheeks, a faint, defiant sparkle in her eyes. In passing from one car to the other she had allowed him to take her hand, and he pressed it ardently. He was swinging back into his joyous and triumphant mood.

They had not been seated long when the train came to a sudden stop. There was no station near, and several of the passengers looked out of the windows, and one or two left the car to see what had happened.

"Wait, and I'll see what is the matter," Buckton said. "I hope we won't be delayed. It is my luck to be behind on every trip. I'm a regular Jonah."

The stop had been made evidently to take on passengers, for a wretchedly clad woman and a little barefooted girl in ragged clothing were courteously helped into the car by the conductor. Both the woman and the girl were weeping violently, their sobs and wailings being distinctly heard as they sat locked in each other's arms. The sight was indeed pitiful. The conductor bent over them, said something in a crude effort at comfort, and then left them alone. Buckton came back, a look of annoyance on his face.

"What is wrong?" Irene questioned him as he sat down by her.

"It seems that the woman's husband was a track-hand," Buckton explained. "He worked down the road a few miles from here, and was run over and killed about an hour ago. They nagged our train to take her and his daughter to him."

"Oh, how awful—how awful!" Irene cried, in dismay. "You can see she is broken-hearted."

"Yes, they both take it hard," Buckton said, frowning. "I wonder what we'll run up against next. I wouldn't care for myself, but such things upset you. Don't look at them. What is the use?"

"I can't help it," Irene answered. "She is the most wretched-looking woman I ever saw. I am going to—to speak to her."

He put out a detaining hand, but she rose, a firm look of kindly determination on her face. Going to the weeping woman, Irene sat down in a chair opposite her, and as she did so the woman raised her anguish-filled eyes.

"I am so sorry to hear of your trouble," Irene began. "Is there anything I can do to help you?"

The woman, who was thin, short, and of colorless complexion, wiped her eyes on a soiled apron. The scant knot of brown hair at the back of her head seemed a pathetic badge of feminine destitution. The eyes, peering from their red and swollen sockets, held an appeal that would have shaken sympathy from the heart of a brute.

"Thar is nothing you kin do, Miss." The voice was a wail which rose, swelled out, and cracked like floating ice against the shore of a mighty stream. "Thar ain't nothin' nobody kin do. My John is dead. Even God can't do nothin'. It's over, I tell you. Dead, dead! I can't believe it, but they say it is so. He wasn't well when he left the house this mornin', but he was afeard he'd lose his job if he didn't report for work. He was so sick he could hardly drag one foot after the other. But he just would go. We had no money. Thar was only a little dab o' meal in the box, and just a rind o' hog meat. Thar is two more littler children than this un, an' they was cryin' for some'n' to eat. I know how it was; John was jest too weak to git out o' the way o' the wheels. Oh, don't mind me, Miss! He's dead—he's dead—dead—dead! Oh, God, have mercy! Kill me—kill us all an' put us out o' pain."

Tears stood in Irene's eyes. Her breast shook and ached with sympathy. She was trying to think of something to say when the whistle of the locomotive sounded.

"Here's the place now!" the woman screamed. "Oh, God! oh, God! Where have they put 'im—where have they put 'im? Maybe he is mashed so bad I won't know 'im. Oh, God! oh, God—kill me!"

The conductor, his face set and pale with pity, had come to aid her to alight. Through the window Irene saw a stretch of wheat-fields, a red-clay embankment, a wrecking-car, a group of earth-stained laborers leaning on their picks and shovels, and something lying beneath a sheet on bare ground. Hastily opening her purse, Irene took out a roll of bills amounting to a hundred dollars and pressed it into the woman's hand.

"Keep it," she said, huskily.

"Thank you, Miss," the woman said, without looking at the money or seeming to realize that she had taken it. She dropped it to the floor as she rose to go, and the conductor picked it up and gave it back to her.

"Keep it," he said; "you will need it."

Irene watched the three pass out at the door of the car and then turned her face from the window. All was still outside for a moment, and then a loud scream, followed by a fainter one, rent the air. Irene covered her face with her hands and remained in darkness till the train moved on. Buckton came and sat beside her, a disturbed look on his face. He waited for several minutes. Then she dropped her hands and sighed.

"I'm sorry this has happened, darling," Buckton said, softly. "You are so sympathetic that such things unstring you."

She bent toward him. There was a haunted, groping expression in her eyes. "I'll never forget this as long as I live," she half sobbed. "It will cling to me till I die. The very pores of my soul seemed to open to that wretched woman's spirit. If she had been my sister I couldn't have felt—"

A welling sob checked her words. He stared at her blankly. He tried to formulate some helpful response, but failed. It was growing dark outside. The porter was lighting the overhead lamps, using a step-ladder to reach them and moving it from spot to spot between the chairs.

"I want to—to ask you something—something serious," Irene said, presently. "Do you believe in omens?"

He saw her drift and forced a smile. "Yes, in this way," he said, lightly. "Things go by opposites all through life. Something good or jolly always follows on the heels of gloom. We are going to be so happy that we won't have time to think of anything disagreeable."

She sighed audibly. That was all.

It was past midnight when they reached Charleston. He led her, still silent and abstracted, to a cab and helped her in. He then gave the name of their hotel to the driver and got in beside her. He took her gloved hand and held it tenderly as the cab rumbled over the cobble-stones through the deserted streets.

"It is too warm for gloves, dear," he said, his hot breath on her cheek; and with throbbing, eager hands he drew one off. He kissed the soft fingers and felt them, flutter like a captured bird. A moment later he put his arm about her and drew her head down to his shoulder. She resisted feebly, turning from him once or twice, and then allowed him to kiss her on the lips.

As they were nearing the hotel he suddenly bethought himself of something he had intended to say by way of precaution.

"You must understand that I sent separate telegrams for rooms," he said. "I took the precaution for absolute safety. I ordered yours in your name and mine in my name."

"I understand," she replied. His arm was still about her, but she shook it off. "Was it—was it wise for us to arrive like this—in the same cab?"

"Oh, that is all right," he answered, confidently. "I am a friend of your family, you know, and I have often traveled with ladies. It will not excite comment. Besides, we know no one here."

Leaving her at the ladies' entrance to go alone up to the parlor, he went into the office. A sleepy-eyed clerk bowed, turned the register around, and, dipping a pen, handed it to him.

"Lady with you, sir?" he inquired.

"In my care, yes." Buckton wrote the two names rather unsteadily. "She and I both telegraphed for your best rooms. Please show her to hers at once. She seems to be quite tired."

"I should think so, on a stuffy day like this," said the clerk, affably, "and coming south, too. I see you are from Atlanta. That is a higher altitude than ours."

"You bet it is." The voice was at Buckton's elbow; and turning, he saw Hambright, his fellow-passenger, smiling on him familiarly. "Well, I see you got through all right."

Though highly displeased by again meeting the man, Buckton nodded and forced a casual smile.

"It was pretty dusty and hot," he said.

"Won't you take a smoke before you turn in?" the drummer asked, extending a cigar.

"No, thanks; not to-night," Buckton declined.

"Take a drink? I've got the best samples on earth. My customers say I carry better samples than stock, but that's a joke. Name the brand and I'll lay it before you. I'm some drink-mixer, I am."

"Not to-night; thank you, all the same."

"Show the lady to suite seventy-five," the clerk called out to a bell-boy. "The gentleman goes to seventy-four. See to the ice-water for both parties."

"Dandy rooms you got," Hambright said, his eyes twinkling significantly. "I know this house like a book. I swear you Atlanta bloods are sports. You certainly keep the old fogies of the town wondering what prank you will play next."

Buckton thought rapidly. To a certain extent he was a judge of human nature, and he realized that no explanation to such a man was safer than the most adroit and elaborate one, so he elected to ignore the obvious innuendo. Chatting with him a few minutes longer, he turned away.

Half an hour later Buckton was in his little sitting-room, seated under a drop-light, with a newspaper spread out before him. Through the rather thin partition he heard Irene moving about the adjoining chamber. He sat for a moment longer; then, rising, he went to the connecting door. He caught his breath and held it as he rapped softly, very softly. The sound of movement on the part of Irene ceased. All was quiet for a moment; then he rapped again. He heard her coming. She unlocked the door, turned the bolt, and opened the door the width of her face. She had changed her dress. She now wore a pretty flowing kimono which she held over her white neck with her jeweled hand.

"What is it?" she asked.

He leaned against the door-jamb, and gazed into her eyes. "I must see you," he panted. "There is—is something I want to tell you."

She hesitated, holding the door. "I'm tired," she faltered. "Besides—Oh, Andy, I've been thinking that perhaps I ought to take the first morning train for the Hardys'! I could get there soon enough to—"

He leaned his flaming face closer to hers. He caught her hand and drew it down from her fluttering throat. "No, it is too late, sweetheart," he said. "We have burnt our bridges behind us. We can't go back now. We don't want to. We couldn't if we tried. We are human. You were cruel to me once; you can't be cruel enough to close this door to-night. You know you can't, darling."

He saw her glance waver. Her hold on the door was less firm. He pushed against it. She fell back, and he took her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers.