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The Girl and Her Trust
(Biograph)
By STELLA MACHEFERT
The quiet of a hot noon hour was on the station at Hillville. In the ticket office, the young and pretty operator sat reading a lurid novel; in the baggage room, the young and good-looking station agent looked over his books and way-bills. Between them was a door, but thru its wooden stoutness passed a continuous current of telepathic cogitations. The girl's fresh red lips were puckered in a pout, and there was a tiny frown between the pretty, level eyebrows. The young man wore an expression of discontent and grievance proclaiming that, state of mind and spirit commonly called "the sulks."
The fact of the matter was that the door had been invitingly open, and the station agent in the most guileless way had strolled in for one of those little chats that were becoming more and more necessary as a fillip to his work and an assuaging of the thirsting of his youthful heart. But he had allowed his ardor and the temptation of a pair of red lips to manacle his discretion, and, tho the stolen kiss may have been sweet in the taking, the consequences washed away its memory as with a bitter draught. That so much scorn could flash from Grace's bonny eyes, he had never dreamed. He quailed before them, feeling himself a craven in spirit as in deed, as, his stammered justification only adding fuel to the fire, he retired to his own domain and suffered the door to be slammed behind him. And this was the state of affairs prevailing as the hot noon brooded over Hillville station.
Into the palpable silence there came a timid, tentative "click-click." Grace put down the novel and turned to the instrument. Over the wire came humming vibrations from a faroff train ; then came the message ;
Agent Hillville:
National Bank sending $2000 on No. 7 for Simpson Construction Co.
G. W. Martin, Forwarding Agent.
Grace went to the door, and, opening it, haughtily held out the telegraph form.
"Here is a wire for you, Mr. Blair," she said, icily.
He gave her a look compounded of remonstrance for the "Mr. Blair" and pleading for "Jack," then read the message. "Number 7" was almost due, and there were boxes and parcels to be sorted, so he had no time to do more than bestow a regretful glance on the retreating figure that declared an obduracy of principle in every line of its determined dignity. With a sigh, Jack went to the platform at the warning screech of the train.
70
THE MONEY ARRIVES