as there had been, and the company doctor got to dropping in too frequently to put his visits down to the old-time occasional friendly calls for an afternoon chat. And then, one day in the early fall, the washing stopped altogether, and the doctor's face was puckered and serious as he left the cottage and headed down Main Street to the station. He entered Carleton's office and, after a few words between them, the super sent for Regan.
That evening Carleton's private car was waiting on the siding when Number Two, the Eastbound Limited, Chick Coogan's old train, pulled in.
As the little yard switcher importantly coughed the super's car on to the rear Pullman, Regan, in his Sunday best, a store suit of black twill, with boiled shirt and stiff collar, came out of the station with Mrs. Coogan on his arm.
An incongruous pair they looked. The little old lady's walk was in painful contrast to the burly master mechanic's stride—her short steps had a painful, hesitating, uncertain waver to them. One hand gripped tenaciously at Regan's coat-sleeve, while the other held the faded, old-fashioned shawl close about her thin, bent shoulders. She carried her head drooped forward a little, hiding the face under the quaint poke bonnet.
A moment later Carleton, too, emerged from the station and joined them.
The station hands and the loungers eyed the trio with curiosity, and then stared in amazement as the two officials helped the old lady up the steps of the
