Now and then Jethro, by a flick of his whip, pointed out some feature of great interest--to him: another farmer’s hay or cattle, a badly tilled field, a line of old cottages which he had been renovating--putting slate roofs in place of thatch and square panes of glass instead of lead lights. Those cottages were for Pamela; the rent would be her pin money. As they whizzed down the steep hill leading to the little wayside station, the signal fell. The porter, who was just throwing back the gates of the level crossing, waited for the horse to pass. “We mustn’t stop to see him off,” Jethro said, as Edred’s baggage was got out. “The mare shies at an engine.” “We must wait.” Her voice was so shrill that it startled her. She added, touching Jethro’s arm, and feeling like Jael of old as she did so: “Do please wait.” “Very well. Here, sonny; hold the horse.” He threw the reins to a boy, and the three of them walked into the tiny station. Edred went into the booking office for his ticket. On the platform there were several people--a few rustics, with baskets or bulging red cotton handkerchiefs; one young woman with a tight, leafless posy bound carefully round with newspaper. “He ought to have had some flowers,” Jethro said, throwing a glance inside at the lean figure at the ticket window. “What would be the good? He hasn’t any home. He will go to an hotel to-night.” A wild, impotent desire to go with him made her quiver. Another wagonette drove up and Mrs. Turle with Nancy alighted. The girl’s face flooded when she saw Edred--in dark clothes--and saw the various leather bags lying about on the platform. They were being hurriedly labeled by the porter. “Edred’s going away--for good.” Pamela turned her veiled cheek to the red lips. “To sea?” Nancy’s face grew piteous. “No. To the city.” “Then he will come down sometimes.” “Perhaps--but it is doubtful. He has found Folly Corner dull. London is so full of attractions for a man.” “Going away!” Aunt Sophy’s clear eyes seemed to pierce behind the lying mask of her burning face. “Isn’t it very sudden, dear? You look quite feverish, Pamela. A touch of headache?” “My head never aches,” she said, almost rudely. “Nancy and I will have an escort up. We are shopping; the summer sales get earlier and earlier every year.” The porter began to clang the noisy brass bell, and along the line, which ran perfectly straight for a mile or more, they saw the blue smoke and bulky, indistinct outline of the approaching engine: “I’ll go and hurry Edred.” She stepped out of the sun into the little booking-office, with its torn excursion-bills and gay pictures of ocean liners. He was scooping up his change, throwing it, with his accustomed carelessly reckless air, into his trousers pocket. The door of the waiting-room was half open. On the platform Aunt Sophy was talking earnestly to Jethro about farming affairs, and Nancy was staring at the enameled advertisement of a local seedsman.