But Mary Grey smiled grimly to herself as she heard it.
They had barely time to get a cup of coffee each before the warning shriek of the steam engine called the passengers to take their places.
Alden Lytton drew his companion's arm within his own, led her into the ladies' car, put her into a comfortable seat, and took his place beside her.
Purposely suggested by Mary Grey's own calculated actions while waiting at the station, a whisper had got around among the attendants that the lovely young lady in black had come down to meet her lover and elope with him; and from the attendants it had reached the ears of some of the passengers.
And now, as Alden Lytton placed himself innocently enough on the seat beside Mary Grey, the eyes of several of their fellow-travelers turned with curiosity toward them.
Certainly the demeanor of both rather favored the idea of their being a pair of engaged lovers.
Alden Lytton, with his beaming and happy face, and his careful attentions to his companion, wore the look of a successful suitor and prospective bridegroom. Mary Grey, with her pale, pretty face and nervous manner, had as much the appearance of a runaway girl, trembling and frightened at what she was daring.
Meanwhile the train whirled onward, bearing many passengers to happy homes or on pleasant visits; but carrying one among them on to crime and another to disaster.
As they drew near the end of the journey the crowd in the ladies' car was thinned out by the leaving of passengers at the smaller stations, until at length Alden Lytton and Mary Grey were left nearly alone and quite out of hearing of any fellow-traveler.
Then Alden said to her:
"I hope you have some plan of occupation and happiness for your future life."
"Yes," murmured Mary Grey, "I have some little prospect. I have the offer of a very good position in a first-class ladies' college near Philadelphia."
"I hope it will suit you."
"I do not know. I have promised to go on and see the institution and talk with the principal before concluding the engagement."
"That would be safest, of course," said Alden.
"And I should have gone on a day or two since, but the journey, with its changes from steamer to car and car to steamer, is really quite a serious one for me to take alone, especially as I always get frightened and lose my presence of mind in the terrible uproar of a steamboat landing or a railway station."
"Then you should never undertake such a journey alone," said Alden, compassionately.
"No, I know it. But yet I shall have to do so, unless I can hear of some party of friends going on in a few days whom I could join," sighed Mary Grey.
"I am not 'a party of friends,'" smiled Alden; "but I am _one_ friend who will be pleased to escort you on that journey, as I am myself going to Philadelphia in a few days."
"_You!_" exclaimed Mary Grey, in well-affected astonishment.
"Yes, madam," replied Alden, with a bow.
"I did not know you ever went North at all," she added, lifting her eyebrows.
"I never yet have been north of Baltimore, strange to say," smiled Alden Lytton; "but I am going in a few days to Philadelphia to purchase a law library, and should be happy to escort you to your place of destination."
"You are very kind to me, and I am very grateful to you. I accept your offer, and will try to give you as little trouble on the journey as possible."
"Oh, do not speak of trouble! There will be none, I assure you," said Alden, pleasantly.
"You are very good to say so, at all events."
"What day would it suit you to go on?" inquired Alden.
"Any day this week--whenever it will be convenient to you. I am the obliged party and should consider your convenience."
"Not by any means! Any day this week would suit me equally. So I beg that you will please yourself alone."
"No."
"Let me be frank with you then and prove how little it really would matter to me whether we go to-morrow or any day thereafter. I have to select and fit up a law office, and I have to select and purchase a law library; and I do not care in the least which I do first," said Alden, with earnest politeness.
"Then, if it really is a matter of indifference to you, I think we will go to Philadelphia on Wednesday morning."
"Very well. I will make my arrangements accordingly. This is Monday night. We have one intervening day. Where shall I call for you on Wednesday morning?"
"You need not call. I will meet you on the Washington boat."
"Just as you please. I will be there."
The engine shrieked its terrific warning, slackened its speed, and ran slowly into the station.
"I will call a carriage for you," said Alden Lytton.
And he left his companion in the waiting-room while he went out and selected a good carriage for her use.
Then he came back, took up her traveling-bag, drew her arm in his own, and led her out to it.
"Where shall I tell the coachman to take you?" he inquired, when he had placed her comfortably in her seat.
"To the Misses Cranes', Old Manor, near the Government House," she answered.
Alden Lytton bowed and closed the door, gave the order to the coachman, and then walked off to his own old quarters at the Henrico House.
The carriage started, but had not gone more than a quarter of a mile when Mrs. Grey stopped it.
The coachman got off his box and came to the window to know her will.
"Turn into the old paper-mill road. I wish to call on a sick friend there before going home. Go on. I will keep a lookout and stop you when we get near the house."
The coachman touched his hat, remounted, and turned his horses' heads to the required direction.
Mary Grey sat close on the left-hand side of the cushion, and drew the curtain away, so that she could look through the window and watch their course.
The night was clear, starlit and breezy after the hot September day.
It was still early, and the sidewalks were enlivened by young people sauntering in front of their own houses to enjoy the refreshing evening air, while the porches and door-steps were occupied by the elders taking their ease in their own way.
But in the next mile the scene began to change, and instead of the populous street, with its long rows of houses and the cheerful sidewalks, there was a lonely road with detached dwellings and occasional groups of people. In the second mile the scene changed again, and there was an old turnpike, with here and there a solitary road-side dwelling, with perhaps a man leaning over the front gate smoking his pipe, or a pair of lovers billing and cooing under the starlit sky.