"Miles has come too," she said. Miles was, indeed, very much _en évidence_. He had made himself what he called "smart" for the occasion, and an extraordinary high collar and a flagrantly red tie certainly put him beyond all danger of being overlooked. His face was a trifle flushed—perhaps with the hurry of his arrival—and his manner jocose. "You look as though you might flood the station any minute," he told Nora. "I bet anything you’d give your bottom dollar to be out of it." "Don’t, Miles!" she answered gently. "Of course I am sorry to leave you all. It is only natural." Her eyes met Arnold’s, and perhaps they said more than she knew. He came back to her side. "Let us go and find a comfortable corner for you," he suggested. She followed him passively, and they walked along the platform to the end of the train, where the crowd of passengers was less dense. "Dear little Nora!" he said, looking down at her with infinite pity and tenderness. The tears rushed again to her eyes. She fought them down courageously, but her voice shook as she answered: "It is so hard to go," she said, "much harder than I thought this morning. I have only just realised how dear everything—everybody is to me." "Nora, that is what I hoped. You are so young—you do not know your own heart. Now perhaps you can tell better—if there is any chance for me." She saw the pleading in his face, and she made no answer. Her throat hurt her and she was no longer so sure. She did care for him, and if she had felt no thrill of passion at his touch, his presence seemed to envelop her in a warm, comforting glow of protecting tenderness infinitely precious. "Nora," he went on, "even now it is not too late. My dearest, what are you waiting for? What are you expecting to find? I believe I could make you happy—my love is so great." She threw up her head with the determined gesture he knew so well. "I must go," she said. "It would be weak and cowardly to turn back at the last minute. Only——" "You will come back soon?" She nodded, her lips trembling. "I feel I must," she said. "And you will write to me?" The Rev. John bustled up to them. He was flustered and nervous, as people are to whom a journey of any sort is an event full of dangerous possibilities. "You must get in at once," he said fussily. "The train is just off. There, God bless you, my dear child! Remember all I have said. And if you are not happy, or the people not nice, let us know at once." Mrs. Ingestre clasped her daughter in a short, almost passionate embrace. "Be happy!" she said again; and the words were a blessing. The carriage door slammed to; somewhere from the rear they heard the guard’s shrill whistle, and gradually the train began to glide forward, leaving behind the little group of dearly loved faces. Arnold walked at the carriage side. "You will write to me often?" he pleaded. "Yes, yes, I will write."