A swirl of wet leaves from the night-hidden trees decorating the little

station beat against the closed doors of the carriages. The porter

hurried along holding his blear-eyed lantern to the different windows,

and calling the name of the township in language peculiar to porters.

There was only one ticket to collect.

Passengers from far up-country towns have importance from their rarity.

He turned his lantern full on this one, as he took her ticket. She

looked at him too, and listened to the sound of his voice, as he spoke

to the guard. Once she had known every hand at the station. The porter

knew everyone in the district. This traveller was a stranger to him.

If her letter had been received, someone would have been waiting with a

buggy. She passed through the station. She saw nothing but an ownerless

dog, huddled, wet and shivering, in a corner. More for sound she

turned to look up the straggling street of the township. Among the

sheoaks, bordering the river she knew so well, the wind made ghostly

music, unheeded by the sleeping town. There was no other sound, and she

turned to the dog with a feeling of kinship. But perhaps the porter had

a message! She went back to the platform. He was locking the office

door, but paused as though expecting her to speak.