Then there were Mrs. Trussit and his aunt to see him off, there was a cab and, most wonderful of all, there was his father coming in the cab. That was a dreadful thing and the journey to the station seemed endless because of it. His father was perfectly silent, and any thrill that Peter might have snatched from the engines, the porters, the whistles, and his own especial carriage were negatived by this paralysing occurrence. He would have liked to have said something himself, but he could only think of things that were quite impossible like “How funny Mrs. Trussit's nose is early in the morning,” “I wonder what old Parlow's doing.” It was terrible. He was in his carriage--they were hurrying, every one was hurrying. His father suddenly spoke. “The guard will see to you. You change at Exeter. Your aunt has given you sandwiches.” A little pause, and then: “You've got pluck. You stood that beating well.” Then the stern face passed, and the grave awful figure faded slowly down the platform. Peter felt suddenly, utterly, completely miserable, and alone. Two tears rolled slowly down his cheeks. He blew his nose, and the train started. III And so this first run into liberty begins with tears and a choke in the throat and a sudden panting desire to be back in the dark passages of Scaw House. Nor did the fleeting swiftness of the new country please him. Suddenly one was leaving behind all those known paths and views, so dimly commonplace in the having of them, so rosily romantic in the tragic wanting of them! How curious that Mrs. Trussit, his aunt, and his father should appear now pathetically affectionate in their farewells of him! They were not--to that he could swear--and yet back he would run did Honour and Destiny allow him. Above all, how he would have run now to Stephen.