Peter no longer
shone; he still glowed. He picked up the golden-haired baby and
hugged it. He hunted out a beggar he had passed and gave him five
Hellers. He helped a suspicious old lady with an oilcloth-covered
bundle; he called the guard on the train "son" and forced a grin
out of that dignitary.
Peter traveled third-class, which was quite comfortable, and no
bother about "Nicht Rauchen" signs. His unreasonable cheerfulness
persisted as far as Gloggnitz. There, with the increasing
ruggedness of the scenery and his first view of the Raxalpe, came
recollection of the urgency of Stewart's last message, of Marie
Jedlicka, of the sordid little tragedy that awaited him at the
end of his journey.
Peter sobered. Life was rather a mess, after all, he reflected.
Love was a blessing, but it was also a curse. After that he sat
back in his corner and let the mountain scenery take care of
itself, while he recalled the look he had surprised once or twice
in Marie's eyes when she looked at Stewart. It was sad, pitiful.
Marie was a clever little thing. If only she'd had a chance!--
Why wasn't he rich enough to help the ones who needed help. Marie
could start again in America, with no one the wiser, and make her
way.
"Smart as the devil, these Austrian girls!" Peter reflected.
"Poor little guttersnipe!"
The weather was beautiful. The sleet of the previous day in
Vienna had been a deep snowfall on the mountains.
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