her gather the wrap a little closer about her shoulders, and that sign
of fear made him sick at heart.

"Mr. Donnegan," said the girl. "I am sorry. We cannot take you into the
house. Eight miles--"

Did she expect to turn a sinner from the gates of heaven with a mere
phrase? He cast out his hand, and she winced as though he had shaken his
fist at her.

"Are you afraid?" cried Donnegan.

"I don't control the house."

He paused, not that her reply had baffled him, but the mere pleasure of
hearing her speak accounted for it. It was one of those low, light
voices which are apt to have very little range or volume, and which
break and tremble absurdly under any stress of emotion; and often they
become shrill in a higher register; but inside conversational limits, if
such a term may be used, there is no fiber so delightful, so purely
musical. Suppose the word "velvet" applied to a sound. That voice came
soothingly and delightfully upon the ear of Donnegan, from which the
roar and rattle of the empty freight train had not quite departed. He
smiled at her.

"But," he protested, "this is west of the Rockies--and I don't see any
other way out."

The girl, all this time, was studying him intently, a little sadly, he
thought. Now she shook her head, but there was more warmth in her voice.