To be
sure, in her infrequent letters to Rose she had always added, "Give my
love to Quinby Graham," and once she said: "Tell him I've been meaning to
write to him all summer." Notwithstanding the fact that Quin had waited
in vain for that letter for twelve consecutive weeks, that he had passed
through every phase of indignation, jealousy, and consuming fear that can
assail a young and undisciplined lover, he nevertheless watched for the
incoming train with a rapture undimmed by disturbing reflections. The
mere fact that every moment the distance was lessening between him and
Eleanor, that within the hour he should see her, hear her, feel the clasp
of her hand, was sufficient to send his spirits soaring into sunny spaces
of confidence far above the clouds of doubt.
"Hello, Quinby; what are you doing here?" asked a voice behind him; and
turning he saw the long, oval face and lady-like figure of Mr. Chester.
"Same thing you are," said Quin, grinning sympathetically. "Only if I was
in your shoes I'd be walking the tracks to meet the train."
Mr. Chester shook his head and smiled primly.
"When you have waited twenty years for a young lady, twenty minutes more
or less do not matter.
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