"I suppose so," agreed Eleanor, as she watched a man oil the wheels
under the engine.
The man finished the work and straightened up. His face and hands were
black from grease and oil and soot, but he smiled a friendly smile at
the young ladies who were obviously waiting to board his train.
"She's all made up, leddies, ef you-all wants to git in."
"Mercy! Does he have to grin as if he were an old friend when he
announces the fact?" complained Barbara, daintily picking her way
between boxes and bags of freight.
"He's a genuine western type," laughed Eleanor, following her sister
into the coach.
"Goodness gracious! Are we expected to sit on these old dusty plush
seats?" cried Barbara, whipping the upholstery with her tiny
handkerchief before she seated herself.
Again Eleanor laughed but she was not as merry as when she jumped from
the Pullman that morning.
Quite different were the sensations of the two city girls, to those of
Anne Stewart, as they passed over the same route and saw the same
country. Perhaps it was the difference in training more than the ideals
of the three girls.
"Nolla, can all the houses be as horrid as those we have passed by?"
asked Barbara, nodding at a group of log-houses.
"I don't know, but they certainly are smaller than the homes in
Chicago, aren't they?" rejoined Eleanor, gazing in open curiosity at
the scenery and buildings so different from that of the city.
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