Mary, for her part, when she had got into the train and smiled for the last time at the eager group, and waved her last good-bye, had a very sad half-hour in the corner, with her veil down, crying and praying for her child. But after that she tried not to think, which is one of the hardest of the habitual processes through which a mind has to go which requires to be always fit for the service of a number of others, and consequently has to keep itself well in hand. She had been obliged to do this many times before, and though it was harder than usual, now that she was alone and had no immediate occupation to take off her thoughts, yet she did more or less succeed in the effort. There was a poor weakly young mother in the carriage, going to join her sailor husband somewhere, with a troublesome baby whom she could not manage. And this was a great help to Mrs. Asquith in keeping off thought and subduing the pain of anxiety. She said to herself this was one advantage of the third class. Had she been travelling luxuriously with a first-class compartment all to herself, she would not have been able to stop herself from thinking. This softened even the thrill of old associations which went through her, when, looking up as the train stopped, she perceived the little station; and, beyond it, the familiar landscape which she had not seen for so long. Was it only sixteen years? It looked like centuries, and yet not much more than a day. Nothing, however, had ever been at Horton in her time like the spruce brougham which was waiting for her, with the smart footman--smarter than any one in the service of the Prescotts had ever been. Amid all the familiarity and the strangeness Mary’s heart sank within her when the servant came up. “The young lady’s just the same, madam,” the man said. “Can you tell me what’s the matter? Oh! can you tell me?” “I don’t know, as no one knows,” said the servant, as he arranged a rug over her knees. “Oh, if you will be so kind--as fast as you can go,” said Mary. He seemed to look at her pitifully, she thought. All better hopes, if she had any, flew at the sight. She felt now that Hetty must be dying, that the case must be desperate. This delivered her from all feeling in respect to the old house where she had been brought up, the fields, the trees, the park--everything which she had known. What did she care about these associations now? She was as indifferent as if she had been but a week away, or as if she had never seen the place before. The doctor met her at the door, looking so grave. She prepared herself for the worst again, and entered the old home without seeing or caring what manner of place it was. “Let me explain to you before you see her, Mrs. Asquith,” Darrell said, leading the way into the old library, which she knew so much better than he did. “Oh, don’t keep me from her! Let me go to my child! Don’t break it to me! I can see--I can see in your face!” “She is not in any danger,” he said.