Astra (Musaicum Romance Classics). Grace Livingston Hill

get away from the thought of how ashamed her mother would have been of her cousin, for Astra's mother had practically brought up Miriam from the time she was a schoolgirl of twelve, at least as much as one could do that important act within the limits of vacations and holidays.

      In addition to Miriam there was Miriam's daughter, Clytie, badly spoiled, and very determined in her own way, which was the way of a changing world that Astra did not care to adopt.

      Astra had stood the differences as long as she could, and then during the absence of the cousins on a western trip in which she was not included, she had written a sweet little note of farewell and departed.

      And now that she was on her way, she was tormented continually by the fear that perhaps she had been wrong to go. Perhaps she should have endured a little longer. But in a few days now she would be of age and would have a little more money to carry on quietly. To secure one of her mother's old servants perhaps to stay with her, or something of that sort. It had seemed so reasonable and easy to make the transfer now when she was about to come of age. And when she considered returning before her cousins got back, or trying to live the life from which she had just fled, the latter seemed utterly impossible.

      The twilight was deepening, and the snow outside the window was gathering thick and soft on the glass, obscuring the view. Suddenly the lights sprang up in the car and banished the gloom of the winter world, bringing out the faces of the tired, discouraged people, the grimy car, and the sharp outlines of the hard seats. All at once the world that Astra was starting out to conquer for herself loomed ahead unhappily, menacingly, with appalling unfriendliness. Suppose she shouldn't be able to get a position anywhere? Suppose her small allowance should run out and she have nowhere to go? Suppose her father's friends were dead or moved away? A lot of things could happen disastrously during a two years' absence. Whatever could she do? Not go back to her cousin's house! Never! She must find something to do. She could not go back to the cousins who would jeer at her and treat her with all the more condescension and find more and more fault with her.

      "Oh God," she breathed, "please, please find me a job! You have places for other people to work, couldn't You find a little place for me? Couldn't You please do something about it for me, for I don't know how to do it myself. I haven't money enough for very long. You know. Show me what to do."

      Her head was back against the seat, her forehead resting against the coolness of the window frame, her eyes closed. She could hear the soft splashing of the big flakes that were falling now, as she rode on into the whiteness of the winter night and prayed her despairing young prayer in her heart.

      Then suddenly the door at the front of the car was flung open and a man's voice spoke clearly with a young ring to it that must have appealed to all who heard it.

      "Is there a stenographer here who will volunteer to take dictation of a very important document from a man who is dying?"

      Astra sat up at once, stirred to instant attention, filled with a kind of awe at this strange, swift call from a man in distress. She was the kind of girl who was always ready to help anyone who needed it.

      There were also two other girls standing, hesitantly, prompt and alert to answer a call from a good-looking young man anywhere. Yet they stood only an instant listening to his explanation, calmly chewing their hunks of gum. Then they slumped slowly back in their seats.

      "Oh! Dying? Not me!" said one of them, pushing out her chin as if he had offered her an insult. "I don't like dying people. Excuse me!"

      The other of the two girls shook her head decidedly. "Nothing doing!" she said with a shrug. "I'm on a vacation, and I wouldn't care ta handle a job fer a dead man!" Then they both giggled for the edification of the other travelers. But Astra walked steadily down the aisle to the young man.

      "I am a stenographer," she said quietly.

      She had taken reams of dictation, the notes of her father's lectures and articles; she knew she was master of the requirements.

      The young man's eyes appraised her with approval, and he said, "Thank you! This way please!" Then he turned and pointed the way through the next car, courteously helping her across the platform.

      "The second car ahead," he said. "He was taken with a sudden heart attack. Fortunately, there was a doctor at hand, and he is doing all he can for him, but the sick man is much distressed because he knows he may go at any minute and there are important matters that must be recorded before he dies. You—are not afraid?"

      Astra looked at the young man gravely.

      "Of course not," she said quietly. "I'll be glad to help."

      He looked his approval as they moved swiftly down the aisle and came to the small stateroom in the next car where the sick man had been laid.

      He was lying in the narrow berth grasping for breath, the doctor by his side and a nurse preparing something under the doctor's direction. The sick man looked at Astra with pleading eyes.

      "Quick!" he gasped. "Get this!"

      The young man who had brought her handed Astra a pencil and pad, and she dropped down on a chair by the bed and began to work swiftly, the young man watching her for an instant, relieved that she seemed to understand her job.

      The sick man spoke very slowly, deliberately, his voice sometimes so low that the girl could scarcely hear him.

      There were a couple of telegrams on business matters addressed to business firms, putting on record definite arrangements the sick man had completed during his journey. Then there was a briefly worded codicil to his will, concerning certain large properties the man had acquired recently which were to be left to his son by his first wife. This codicil was to be sent to his lawyer at once, observing all the formalities of the law. All this was spoken with the utmost difficulty, gasped slowly, detachedly, as his breath grew faint or his drifting intelligence faded and then flashed back again. It was heartbreaking, and Astra forgot her own perplexities in making sure she caught every syllable the troubled soul uttered.

      When the dictation was completed the sick man sank limply into his pillow, relaxed for an instant as if he had reached the end. Then he roused again and feebly pointed at the papers in the girl's lap.

      "Copy! Quick! I—must—sign——"

      Astra gathered her papers together and stood up with an understanding look in her eyes.

      "Yes of course," she said in a clear, businesslike voice. "If I only had a typewriter, it would take almost no time at all," she added.

      The young man stood at the door.

      "Come right this way. I have a machine ready for you," he said, and led her down the aisle to another car and into a small compartment where was a typewriter and plenty of paper.

      "It will be necessary to have two copies," said the young man. "Here is carbon paper."

      Astra sat down and went expertly to work, and in a very short time she had a sheaf of neatly typed papers ready.

      The young man was back at the door as she finished.

      "Fine! That was quick work. I didn't expect you'd be quite done yet," he said. "We'll go right back. The doctor has given him a stimulant, hoping to make those signatures possible. We'll have to be witnesses, of course."

      The patient lay with bright, restless eyes on the door as they entered, and a relieved look came into his face as he saw them.

      The doctor and nurse arranged a bedside table, tilted so that the patient could see what he was writing, and they placed the papers one by one upon it and watched the trembling hand trace feebly the name that had been a power in the business world for many years.

      It was very still in the little stateroom. Only the noise of the rushing train could be heard. Astra glanced at the windows, covered thickly now with snow, shutting out the darkness of the outside world, with only now and then a faint, fleeting splash of color—red or yellow or green—as the train flashed through a lighted town.

      And now the signatures were finished, the last few strokes evidently a tremendous effort as the