Bud would have learned enough to ease
the ache in his heart--enough to humble him and fill him with
an abiding reverence for a love that will live, as Marie's had
lived, on bitterness and regret.
Nearly distracted under the lash of her own eagerness and the
fear that her mother would return too soon and bully her into
giving up her wild plan, Marie, carrying Lovin Child on one arm
and lugging the suit case in the other hand, and half running,
managed to catch a street car and climb aboard all out of breath
and with her hat tilted over one ear. She deposited the baby on
the seat beside her, fumbled for a nickel, and asked the
conductor pantingly if she would be in time to catch the four-
five to the city. It maddened her to watch the bored deliberation
of the man as he pulled out his watch and regarded it
meditatively.
"You'll catch it--if you're lucky about your transfer," he
said, and rang up her fare and went off to the rear platform,
just as if it were not a matter of life and death at all. Marie
could have shaken him for his indifference; and as for the
motorman, she was convinced that he ran as slow as he dared, just
to drive her crazy. But even with these two inhuman monsters
doing their best to make her miss the train, and with the street
car she wanted to transfer to running off and leaving her at the
very last minute, and with Lovin Child suddenly discovering that
he wanted to be carried, and that he emphatically did not want
her to carry the suit case at all, Marie actually reached the
depot ahead of the four-five train.
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