I am only sorry that the trip is over." Then her tone changed a little, and Weston supposed that she was unwilling to make too great an admission.
"There are so many little discomforts you have saved us." "Yes," he agreed, a trifle dryly, "I suppose there are.

However, I shall probably have gone away when you come back again." He broke off for a moment, and then turned toward her quietly.
"Still," he said, "I seem to feel that I shall see you again some day." His voice was perfectly steady, but, though the light was fading fast, Ida saw the glint in his eyes, and she answered conventionally.
"Of course," she said, "that would be a pleasure." Then she spoiled it by a laugh when she saw the smile creep into her companion's eyes; for it was clear to both of them that the formal expression was in their case somewhat out of place.

They realized that there was more that might have been said; and it was a slight relief when the shriek of a whistle came ringing down the track and a roar of wheels grew louder among the shadowy pines.

Then the great mountain locomotive and the dusty cars came clanking into the station, stopped a few moments, and rolled away again; and Weston was left with the vision of a white-robed figure in a fluttering dress that leaned out from a car platform looking back at the gleaming snow and then turned a moment to wave a hand to him.
It was an hour later, and the big nickeled lamps were lighted, when Arabella Kinnaird looked up at her companion as she sat in a lurching car while the great train swept furiously down the Fraser gorge.
"Now," she exclaimed, "I remember! That packer has been puzzling me.
His face was familiar.

The same thing struck the major, as you heard him say." "Well ?" inquired Ida, a little too indifferently.
Her companion laughed.
"You overdo it.