There lay atop the packets of food a note addressed to Mama and myself in Miss Grange’s careful hand. I reached for it instantly and opened the gray paper to find a characteristically simple message: My heart travels with you both. Tears sprang to my eyes and I passed it to Mama, who did not lift her veil but regarded the note in silence. Then, to no one in particular, she said softly, “Well, he is with her now.”

“Mama?”

And edged by a chill I had never heard, she continued, “Her heart need not travel far to find its rest.”

I tried to see past the black gauze to her expression, but she turned her face quickly and bid Jessie leave us alone. Jessie nodded and slid shut the compartment door behind her, just as Mama burst forth querulously.

“Why is it, Maisie, you did not see fit to worry about my heart?”

“Mama?”

“When you told me of your father’s last wish.”

“Would you not have wanted to carry out his wishes?”

“I would rather not have known his wishes.”

“But Mama—”

“And why is it, Maisie”—she raised up her veil with one shaking hand—“he spoke that wish only to you?”

“Mama,” I murmured, “you know he could barely speak at the last. He would have”—I stopped and put my hand upon her knee—“he would have told you the same if—”

But she closed her eyes against me then and said simply, “Well, you are your father’s child.”

Stung, I leaned back into the cushions. Neither of us spoke. With a jolt, the train moved forward and slowly began again its shuddering journey to the south. Mama’s face through her veil remained rigid; and glad I was then, glad I had not told Mama all that Papa had said before he died. It would remain our secret, his and mine. Indeed, I reflected, I do not think she could have understood those strange words, and would not have tried. Hers was never a questing spirit.