The Courage of Marge O'Doone

If you had stood there in the edge of the bleak spruce forest, with the wind moaning dismally through the twisting trees-midnight of deep December-the Transcontinental would have looked like a thing of fire; dull fire, glowing with a smouldering warmth, but of strange ghostliness and out of place. It was a weird shadow, helpless and without motion, and black as the half-Arctic night save for the band of illumination that cut it in twain from the first coach to the last, with a space like an inky hyphen where the baggage car lay.