The sobs had burst into a howl at the end of this speech, but Charley stood as one dazed, gazing out through the soft evening light upon the quiet landscape with a mist before his eyes. He attempted no comfort, and the child cried on, stopping sometimes to gaze at him amazed. But at last he seemed to shake himself, and, fetching a deep sigh, put his hand in his pocket and gave a sixpence to the little one, bidding her run home to tea. She needed no second persuasion, and when she was gone he turned slowly away and went down the hill to the station. He had made up his mind now. If Bess had gone, she had gone to try and find him. He must go back to London, he must go back to every place in that vast and terrible city where he had ever set foot. He would not let himself remember that it was an absolutely foolish and bootless search: it was all he could do, and he must do it at once. But at the station they told him that there was no train for an hour and a half, and he turned into the “Public” hard by to get something to keep up his spirits before starting. The bar was full, for it was a Saturday, and tongues were wagging noisily. But there was a lull as he came in, and he was sure—yes, he was quite sure this time—that men looked at him curiously. He nodded carelessly to those whom he knew, and walking up to the counter ordered his drink. A young man stood beside it: a short, thick-set young man with flaxen hair. He didn’t know him, and they did not speak, but a lad of about his own age lounged up to him. “Well, Charley Chiswick, gettin’ on pretty fair since ye left the old place?” asked he. The fair young man turned round and looked at Charley on hearing this; he noticed it. “Yes, thank ye,” said he to the questioner, “nicely. It were a fight at first, but I’ve got my foot well in now.” “London?” inquired an old labourer laconically, between the puffs of his pipe. “Yes,” replied the lad. “What trade?” asked a third. “Carpentering,” said Charley. “I’m in a good firm now—City ways.” There was a pause, and then the first speaker volunteered the information that “Farmer Benson ain’t come to no better mind ’bout that right o’ way, and ’ave took to drink wus nor ever,” and that he didn’t suppose “Farmer Chiswick’d give in neither.” “I never knowed my father to give in,” said Charley, half sadly. “No,” agreed the other, “if old folks weren’t so darned obstinate, there mightn’t be so much mischief in the world as what there is! It serve ’em right—it do!” Charley looked up quickly. There seemed somehow to be more in this speech than it said; but the fellow who had spoken it slunk away and retired into the background, and again the lad felt as though many eyes were upon him; and he began to guess why: folk pitied him. He drank his glass in silence, and thought he would go and wait in the lanes till his time was up. But some one in the background wanted to have his word too, and called out cheerily: