"What did he say about being ill?" she asked, when they were left together. "That he was only a bit dizzy. Mayhap he's noways 'customed to illness," said the landlady. "That is true. And what did you say then?" "I coaxed him to rest him a bit, and take a drop o' summat, and he smiled and said, 'Thank you, my good woman.' "You were in the right, you dear old soul," said Greta. And she put her arms about the landlady and hugged her. "I'm sure you've been very good to my husband, and watched him tenderly, while I, who should have nursed him, have been away. Thank you, thank you!" Mrs. Drayton was feeling uneasy. "Well, d'ye know, I can't bear to see a fellow creatur' suffer. It goes agen me someways." Greta had risen to her feet. "Stay here, Mrs. Drayton--Drayton, isn't it?--stay here while I go on to the platform. He might come and not see me. Ah, yes, he may be looking everywhere for me now." She went out and elbowed her way among the people who were hurrying to and fro; she dodged between the trucks that were sliding luggage on to the weighing machine and off to the van. The engines were puffing volumes of smoke and steam up to the great glass roof, where the whistle of the engine-man echoed sharp and shrill. Presently she returned to the waiting-room. "Oh, Mrs. Drayton," she said, "I dreamed a fearful dream last night. What do you think? Will he be well enough to come?" "Coorse, coorse, my dear. 'Tell her to meet her husband at twelve.' Them's the gentleman's own words." "How happy I shall be when we are safe at home! And if he is ill, it will be for me to nurse him then." The light in the dove-like eyes at that moment told plainly that to the poor soul even illness might bring its compensating happiness. "And as to dreams, to be sure, they are on'y dreams; and what's dreams, say I?" "You are right, Mrs. Drayton," said Greta, and once more she shot away toward the platform. Her mind had turned to Parson Christian. Could it be possible that he had arrived? The porter who had brought in her luggage was still standing beside it, and with him there was another porter. Their backs were toward Greta as she came out of the waiting-room, and, tripping lightly behind them, she overheard a part of their conversation before they were aware that she was near. "See the old file in the gaiters by the eleven up?" said one. "Rather. A reg'lar grandmother's great-grandfather just out of the year one. Talk about swallows, eh?--and the buckles--and the stockings!" "Good sort, how-an'-ever." "Good for a tip, eh? Wouldn't ha' thought it." "No, but a real good-hearted 'un an' if he is a Pape." "Never?" "To be sure. Got me to put him in a fly for the Catholic Convent up Westminster way." Greta could restrain herself no longer, but burst in upon them with twenty questions. When had the parson arrived? When had he left? Was it in a fly? Would it go quickly? Could there be time for it to get back? "What's your train, miss--twelve to the north?"