I first went to the town in which lived the relative, the cousin of my father's whom I have mentioned. It was a bustling, busy city and he was reputed the head of the Bar in his State—a man of large interests and influence. I knew my father's regard for him. I think it was this and his promise about me that made me go to him now. I thought he might help me, at least with advice; for I had his name.

I left my trunk and Dix at the hotel and called on him at his large office. In my loneliness, I was full of a new-born feeling of affection for this sole kinsman. I thought, perhaps, he might possibly even make me an offer to remain with him and eventually succeed to his practice. I had not seen him two seconds, however, before I knew this was folly. When I had sent in my name by an obtrusive-eyed office-boy, I was kept waiting for some time in the outer office where the office-boy loudly munched an apple, and a couple of clerks whispered to each other with their eyes on the private office-door. And when I was ushered in, he gave me a single keen look as I entered and went on writing without asking me to sit down, and I would not sit without an invitation. When he had finished he looked up, and nodded his head with a sort of jerk toward a chair. He was a large man with a large head, short gray hair, a strong nose, a heavy chin, and gray eyes close together, without the kindliness either of age or of youth. I took a step toward him and in some embarrassment began to speak rapidly. I called him "Cousin," for blood had always counted for a great deal with us, and I had often heard my father speak of him with pride. But his sharp look stopped me.

"Take a seat," he said, more in a tone of command than of invitation, and called me "Mister." It was like plunging me into a colder atmosphere. I did not sit down, but I was so far into my sentence I could not well stop. So I went on and asked him what he thought of my settling there, growing more and more embarrassed and hot with every word.

"Have you any money?" he asked shortly.

"Not a cent."

"Well, I have none to lend you. You need not count on me. I would advise—" But I did not wait for him to finish. I had got hold of myself and was self-possessed enough now.

"I did not ask you to lend me any money, either," I said, straightening myself up. "I did ask you to give me some advice; but now I do not want that or anything else you have, d——n you! I made a mistake in coming to you, for I am abundantly able to take care of myself."

Of course, I know now that he had something on his side. He supposed me a weak, worthless dog, if not a "dead-beat." But I was so angry with him I could not help saying what I did. I stalked out and slammed the door behind me with a bang that made the glass in the sash rattle; and the two or three young men, busy in the outer office, looked up in wonder. I went straight to the hotel and took the train to the biggest city my money would get me to. I thought a big city offered the best chances for me, and, at least, would hide me. I think the fact that I had once written a brief for Mr. Poole in the matter of his interest in car lines there influenced me in my selection.

I travelled that night and the next day and the night following, and partly because my money was running low and partly on Dix's account, I rode in a day-coach. The first night and day passed well enough, but the second night I was tired and dusty and lonely.

On the train that night I spent some serious hours. Disappointment is the mother of depression and the grandmother of reflection. I took stock of myself and tried to peer into the dim and misty future, and it was gloomy work. Only one who has started out with the world in fee, and after throwing it away in sheer recklessness of folly, suddenly hauls up to find himself bankrupt of all he had spurned in his pride: a homeless and friendless wanderer on the face of the earth, may imagine what I went through. I learned that night what the exile feels; I dimly felt what the outcast experiences. And I was sensible that I had brought it all on myself. I had wantonly wasted all my substance in riotous living and I had no father to return to—nothing, not even swine to keep in a strange land. I faced myself on the train that night, and the effigy I gazed on I admitted to be a fool.

The train, stuffy and hot, lagged and jolted and stopped, and still I was conscious of only that soul-shifting process of self-facing. The image of Peck, the tortoise, haunted me. At times I dozed or even slept very soundly; though doubled up like a jack-knife, as I was, I could not efface myself even in my sleep. But when I waked, there was still myself—grim, lonely, homeless—haunting me like a stabbed corpse chained to my side.

I was recalled to myself at last by the whimpering of children packed in a seat across the aisle from me. They had all piled in together the first night somewhere with much excitement. They were now hungry and frowsy and wretched. There were five of them, red-cheeked and dirty; complaining to their mother who, worn and bedraggled herself, yet never lost patience with one or raised her voice above the soothing pitch in all her consoling.

At first I was annoyed by them; then I was amused; then I wondered at her, and at last, I almost envied her, so lonely was I and so content was she with her little brood.

Hitched on to the train the second night was a private car, said to be that of someone connected with a vice-president of the road. The name of the official, which I learned later, was the same as that of an old college friend of my father's, and I had often heard my father mention him as his successful rival with his first sweetheart, and he used to tease my mother by recalling the charms of Kitty MacKenzie, the young lady in question, whose red golden hair he declared the most beautiful hair that ever crowned a mortal head—while my mother, I remember, insisted that her hair was merely carroty, and that her beauty, though undeniable, was distinctly of the milkmaid order—a shaft which was will aimed, for my mother's beauty was of the delicate, aristocratic type. The fact was that Mr. Leigh had been a suitor of hers before my father met her, and having been discarded by her, had consoled himself with the pretty girl, to whom my father had been attentive before he met and fell "head over heels in love" with a new star at a college ball.

Mr. Leigh, I knew, had gone West, and grown up to be a banker, and I wondered vaguely if by any chance he could be the same person.

The train should have reached my destination in time for breakfast, and we had all looked forward to it and made our arrangements accordingly. The engine, however, which had been put on somewhere during the night, had "given out," and we were not only some hours late, but were no longer able to keep steadily even the snail's pace at which we had been crawling all night. The final stop came on a long upgrade in a stretch of broken country sparsely settled, and though once heavily wooded, now almost denuded. Here the engine, after a last futile, gasping effort, finally gave up, and the engineer descended for the dozenth time to see "what he could do about it." To make matters worse, the water in our car had given out, and though we had been passing streams a little before, there was no water in sight where we stopped. It soon became known that we should have to wait until a brakeman could walk to the nearest telegraph station, miles off, and have another engine despatched to our aid from a town thirty or more miles away. So long as there had been hope of keeping on, however faint, there had been measurable content, and the grumbling which had been heard at intervals all the latter part of the night had been sporadic and subdued; but now, when the last hope was gone, and it was known that we were at last "stuck" for good, there was an outbreak of ill-humor from the men, though the women in the car still kept silent, partly subdued by their dishevelled condition and partly because they were content for once, while listening to the men. Now and then a man who had been forward would come back into the car, and address someone present, or speak to the entire car, and in the silence that fell every one listened until he had delivered himself. But no one had yet given a satisfactory explanation of the delay.

At last, a man who sat near me gave an explanation. "The engine lost time because it had too heavy a load. It's a heavy train, anyway, and they put a private car on and the engine could not pull it, that's all that's the matter." He spoke with the finality of a judge, and sat back in his seat, and we all knew that he had hit the mark, and given the true cause. Henceforward he was regarded with respect. He really knew things. I insensibly took note of him. He was a middle-sized, plain-looking man with bright eyes and a firm mouth. Whether by a coincidence or not, just at that moment something appeared to have given way in the car: babies began to cry; children to fret, and the elders to fume and grumble. In a short time every one in the car was abusing the railroad and its management. Their inconsiderateness, their indifference to the comfort of their passengers.

"They pay no more attention to us and take no more care of us than if we were so many cattle," growled a man. "I couldn't get a single berth last night." He was a big, sour-looking fellow, who wore patent-leather shoes on his large feet, and a silk hat, now much rubbed—and a dirty silk handkerchief was tucked in his soiled collar, and in his soiled shirt front showed a supposititious diamond. He was, as I learned later, named Wringman, and was a labor-leader of some note.

"Not as much as of cattle—for, at least, they water them," said another, "they care nothing about our comfort."

"Unless they ride in a Pullman," interjected the man near me, who had explained the situation.

The woman with the five children suddenly turned. "And that's true, too," she said, with a glance of appreciation at him and a sudden flash of hate at the big man with the diamond. Off and on all night the children had, between naps, begged for water, and the mother had trudged back and forth with the patience of an Egyptian water-carrier, but now the water had given out, and the younger ones had been whimpering because they were hungry.

I went forward, and about the engine, where I stood for a time, looking on while we waited, I heard further criticism of the road, but along a different line, from the trainmen:

"Well, I'll have to stand it," said one of them, the engineer, a man past middle-age. "No more strikes for me. That one on the C. B. and B. D. taught me a lesson. I was pretty well fixed then—had a nice house and lot 'most paid for in the Building Company, and the furniture all paid for, except a few instalments, and it all went. I thought we'd 'a' starved that winter—and my wife's been sick ever since."

"I know," said his friend, "but if they cut down we've got to fight. I'm willin' to starve to beat 'em."

"You may be; but you ain't got little children and a sick wife."

A little later I saw the flashily dressed man with the dirty handkerchief talking to him, and insisting that they should fight the company: "We'll bring 'em to their knees," he said, with many oaths. The engineer kept silence, the younger man assented warmly.

I went back to my car. Presently matters grew so bad in the car that my sympathies for the children were aroused, and I determined to see if I could not ameliorate the conditions somewhat. I went back to the Pullman car to see if there was any chance of buying some food: but the haggard looking porter said there was nothing on the car. "They usually go in to breakfast," he explained. My only chance would be the private car behind. So, after I had been forward and ascertained that we would not get away for at least an hour more, I went back and offered to look after the older children of the little family. "I am going to take my dog for a run; I'll take the little folks too." The mother with a baby in her arms and a child, hardly more than a baby, tugging at her, looked unutterably tired, and was most grateful to me. I took the older children and went down the bank, and turning back, began to pick the straggling wild flowers beside the track. As we passed the private car, the door opened, and the cook tossed a waiterful of scraps out on the ground on which both Dixie and the children threw themselves. But, though there was plenty of bread, it had all been ruined by being in the slop-water; so Dixie was soon left in undisturbed possession.

A little beyond the end of the train we came on a young girl engaged in the same occupation as ourselves. Her back was toward us, but her figure was straight and supple, and her motions easy and full of spring. The sight of the young lady so fresh and cool, with the morning sun shining on a thick coil of shining hair, quite revived me. I drew near to get a good look at her and also to be within shot of a chance to speak to her should opportunity offer. If I were a novelist trying to describe her I should say that she was standing just at the foot of a bank with a clump of green bushes behind her, her arms full of flowers which she had gathered. For all these were there, and might have been created there for her, so harmonious were they with the fresh young face above them and the pliant form which clasped them. I might further have likened her to Proserpine with her young arms full of blossoms from Sicilian meads; for she resembled her in other ways than in embracing flowers and breathing fragrance as she stood in the morning light. But truth to tell, it was only later that I thought of these. The first impression I received, as it will be the last, was of her eyes. Dimples, and snow-white teeth; changing expression where light and shadow played, with every varying feeling, and where color came and went like roses thrown on lilies, and lilies on roses, all came to me later on. But that was in another phase. Her eyes were what I saw at first, and never since have I seen the morning or the evening star swimming in rosy light but they have come back to me. I remember I wore a blue suit and had on an old yachting cap, which I had gotten once when on a short cruise with a friend. I was feeling quite pleased with myself. She suddenly turned.

"Are you the brakeman?"

"No, I am not." I could scarcely help laughing at my sudden fall. "But perhaps I can serve you?" I added.

"Oh! I beg pardon! No, I thank you. I only wanted to ask—However, it is nothing."

Dix had, on being let out, and satisfying himself that I was coming along, made a wild dash down the bank and alongside the train, and now on his return rush, catching sight of the young lady in her fresh frock, without waiting for the formality of an introduction, he made a dash for her and sprang up on her as if he had known her all his life. I called to him, but it was too late, and before I could stop him, he was up telling her what after my first look at her I should have liked to tell her myself: what a sweet charming creature we thought her.

Dixie had no scruples of false pride inculcated by a foolish convention of so-called society. He liked her and said so, and she liked him for it, while I was glad to shine for a moment in the reflected glory of being his master.

"What a fine dog!" she exclaimed as she patted him, addressing the children, who, with soiled clothes and tousled heads, were gazing at the spick-and-span apparition in open-mouthed wonder. "How I envy you such a dog."

"He ain't ours, he belongs to him," said the child, pointing to me, as I stooped at a little distance pretending to pull blossoms while I listened.

"Oh! Who is he? Is he your father?" My face was averted.

"Oh! no. We don't know who he is; he just took us so."

"Took you so?"

"You see," explained the next older one, "our mother, she's got the baby and Janet, and the gentleman, he said he would take us and get some wild flowers, because we hadn't had any breakfast, and that dog"—But the dog was forgotten on the instant.

"Have not had any breakfast!" exclaimed the young lady with astonishment.

"No; you see, we had some bread last night, but that's given out. She ate the last piece last night—" (she pointed at the smallest child)—"and we were so hungry; she cried, and Mamma cried, and that gentleman——"

By this time I had turned and I now stepped forward. I confess, that as I turned, wrath was in my heart, but at sight of that horrified face, in its sympathy, my anger died away.

"Oh! and to think what I wasted! How did it happen?"

"The train was late and they had expected to get in to breakfast, but the engine gave out," I explained.

"And they have not had any breakfast?"

"No one on the train."

"You see," chimed in the oldest girl, glad to be able to add information, "the train's heavy anyway, and they put a private car on, and it was more than the engine could pull, that's all that's the matter."

The young lady turned to me:

"Do you mean that our car has caused all this trouble?"

I nodded. "I don't know about 'all,' but it helped."

"You poor little dears!" she said, rushing to the children, "come with me." And, taking the youngest child by the hand, she hurried to the rear steps of the car, with the others close behind, while Dixie, who appeared to know what was in store, walked close beside her knee, as much as to say, "Don't leave me out."

As the train stood on an embankment, the step was too high for her to climb up, so I offered to put the children up on the top step for her. Then came the difficulty of her getting up herself. She called the porter, but the door was shut and there was no answer.

"Let me help you up, too," I said. "Here, you can reach the rail, and step in my hand and spring up. I can help you perfectly well—as though you were mounting a horse," I added, seeing her hesitate. And, without giving her time to think, I stooped and lifted her to the step. As she sprang up, the door opened, and a portly lady, richly dressed and with several diamond rings on, came out on the platform. She gazed on the little group with astonishment.

"Why, Eleanor, what is this? Who are these?"

"They are some poor children, Aunt, who have had no breakfast, and I am going to give them some."

"Why, they can't come in here, my dear. Those dirty little brats come in our car! It is impossible, my dear."

"Oh, no, it is not, Aunty," said the young girl with a laugh, "they have had no breakfast."

"Give them food, my dear, if you please, but I beg you not to bring them into this car. Look how dirty they are! Why, they might give us all some terrible disease!"

But Miss Eleanor had closed her ears to the plump lady's expostulations, and was arranging with a surly servant for something to eat for the children. And just then the question of their invasion of the car was settled by the train's starting. I undertook to run forward alongside the car, but seeing an open ravine ahead spanned by a trestle, and that the train was quickening its speed, I caught Dixie and threw him up on the rear platform, and then swung myself up after him. The rear door was still unlocked, so I opened it to pass through the car. Just inside, the elderly lady was sitting back in an arm-chair with a novel in her lap, though she was engaged at the moment in softly polishing her nails. She stopped long enough to raise her jewelled lorgnette, and take a shot at me through it:

"Are you the brakeman?" she called.

"No, Madame," I said grimly, thinking, "Well, I must have a brakeman's air to-day."

"Oh! Will you ring that bell?"

"Certainly." I rang and, passing on, was met by the porter coming to answer the bell.

"This is a private car," he said shortly, blocking my way.

"I know it." I looked him in the eye.

"You can't go th'oo this car."

"Oh! yes, I can. I have got to go through it. Move out of my way."

My tone and manner impressed him sufficiently, and he surlily moved aside, muttering to himself; and I passed on, just conscious that the stout lady had posted herself at the opening of the passage-way behind, and had beckoned to the porter, who sprang toward her with alacrity. As I passed through the open saloon, the young lady was engaged in supplying my little charges with large plates of bread and butter, while a grinning cook, in his white apron and cap, was bringing a yet further supply. She turned and smiled to me as I passed.

"Won't you have something, too? It is a very poor apology for a breakfast; for we had finished and cleared away, but if——"

"These little tots don't appear to think so," I said, my ill-humor evaporating under her smile.

"Well, won't you have something?"

I declined this in my best Chesterfieldian manner, alleging that I must go ahead and tell their mother what a good fairy they had found.

"Oh! it is nothing. To think of these poor little things being kept without breakfast all morning. My father will be very much disturbed to find that this car has caused the delay."

"Not if he is like his sister," I thought to myself, but I only bowed, and said, "I will come back in a little while, and get them for their mother." To which she replied that she would send them to their mother by the porter, thereby cutting off a chance which I had promised myself of possibly getting another glimpse of her. But the sight of myself at this moment in a mirror hastened my departure. A large smudge of black was across my face, evidently from a hand of one of the children. The prints of the fingers in black were plain on my cheek, while a broad smear ran across my nose. No wonder they thought me a brakeman.

As I reached the front door of the car I found it locked and I could not open it. At the same moment the porter appeared behind me.

"Ef you'll git out of my way, I'll open it," he said in a tone so insolent that my gorge rose.

I stood aside and, still muttering to himself, he unlocked the door, and with his hand on the knob, stood aside for me to pass. As I passed I turned to look for Dixie, who was following me, and I caught the words, "I'se tired o' po' white folks and dogs in my car." At the same moment Dixie passed and he gave him a kick, which drew a little yelp of surprise from him. My blood suddenly boiled. The door was still open and, quick as light, I caught the porter by the collar and with a yank jerked him out on the platform. The door slammed to as he came, and I had him to myself. With my hand still on his throat I gave him a shake that made his teeth rattle.

"You black scoundrel," I said furiously. "I have a good mind to fling you off this train, and break your neck." The negro's face was ashy.

"Indeed, boss," he said, "I didn' mean no harm in the world by what I said. If I had known you was one of dese gentlemens, I'd 'a' never said a word; nor suh, that I wouldn'. An' I wouldn' 'a' tetched your dorg for nuthin', no suh."

"Well, I'll teach you something," I said. "I'll teach you to keep a civil tongue in your head, at least."

"Yes, suh, yes, suh," he said, "I always is, I always tries to be, I just didn't know; nor suh, I axes your pardon. I didn' mean nuthin' in the worl'."

"Now go in there and learn to behave yourself in the future," I said.

"Yes, suh, I will." And, with another bow, and a side look at Dix, who was now growling ominously, he let himself in at the door and I passed on forward.