The Brook 



The train was running more slowly. Both were 

 conscious of it. Striving looked at the girl and 

 smiled a little disappointedly. She seemed to 

 understand. 



"I get off here. I'm awfully sorry. I wish you 

 were going with us." And then she laughed, 

 spontaneously. "But it's good you're not. You 

 never could have ridden Babbington Brook there 

 by the fallen tree." 



"I could," said Striving doggedly, and the girl 

 laughed again. 



The brakes ground on the wheels. The train 

 slowed up and stopped before a tiny station. Just 

 around the corner Striving had a vague idea he 

 caught sight of a scarlet coat. The girl got up and 

 put out her hand. 



"I'm sorry," she said again, "that you can't be 

 with us." 



Striving took the gloved hand and shook it 

 vigorously. It was not so very large, but it was 

 quite firm and strong and responded. 



"Good luck." 



He followed her to the end of the car. 



"We're strangers," he went on, "I won't be 

 seen speaking to you. Your friends might not 

 understand." 



Again came the delicious rippling laugh. 



"It wasn't exactly according to the rules, was 

 67 



