It was a lonely place; almost nobody was there
waiting for the train; one or two forlorn coloured people and
a long lank-looking countryman, were all. Except what at first
prevented my seeing anything else — my cousin Preston. He met
me just as I was going to get down from the car; lifted me to
the platform; and then with his looks and words almost broke
up the composure which for several days had been growing upon
me. It was not hardened yet to bear attacks. I was like a poor
shell-fish, which having lost one coat of armour and defence,
craves a place of hiding and shelter for itself until its new
coat be grown. While he was begging me to come into the
station-house and rest, I stood still looking up the long line
of railway by which we had come, feeling as if my life lay at
the other end of it, out of sight and quite beyond reach. Yet
I asked him not to call me "poor" Daisy. I was very tired, and
I suppose my nerves not very steady. Preston said we must wait
at that place for another train; there was a fork in the road
beyond, and this train would not go the right way.
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