of physical nausea. Strange how things went together. Because Mamma had run off with Mr. Cuncliffe, she had been violently sick all the time she wasn't actually crying during the next two nights and intervening day. If she thought enough of Mamma she would begin again, and she would much rather have died than begin again. It was sleep she needed. 'Oh, dear, I shall never sleep again; I shall never be happy again. Everything is gone, except myself.'
The train swayed upon its little rails. Outside was a white-wrapped world slipping back towards Amherst as the train forged forward to Boston; inside the group about the stove, the inelegant women, the men who were not quite gentlemen, and three bundles of cloth with children within.
'Toot toot to-to-o-o.' Another station. The train drew to a ponderous stop. She looked out and saw that it was Worcester. The lady with the green dolman was getting out, and the brakeman was coming in carrying a big basket of wood. Behind him two little girls, obviously orphans with black frocks and almost professionally pinched faces, held out in their little thin hands trays of gingerbread and cold cup custards. They did not say a word, but clung to each other like unfortunate orphans in moral tracts and gazed piteously at the passengers. Lanice motioned them to her. 'I'd like some gingerbread,' she said, and liberally opened her bead purse to pay them. The little creatures whispered their thanks, then sank into abysmal woe.
'Are you alone in the world?' asked Lanice gently.
