to explain to her. She heard him through in silence and without protest.
“I suppose you must know best,” was her only comment.
When he made an attempt to thank her for all her kindness, she refused to listen.
“The Edmonds boys are my friends,” she said, “and for them I would do much. This was nothing.”
She came to the door to bid him good-by and stood watching him as he went down the path to the gate. The morning mist lay heavy in the little valley and stretched upward in wreaths over the hills. The air was cold, so that he turned up his coat-collar and walked very briskly. Once he looked back and saw that Linda Ingmarsson had come out to the gate and stood leaning over it almost as though she were about to call him back. She made no sign, however, so he turned once more and walked on toward the station. He found that he was early, that the little building was still locked and that he must sit down on the narrow bench at the edge of the platform and
