What would she say--when the train stopped? In anticipation he already heard the cry of the porters--"Braeside--all change!" The perspiration started on his brow. Why, there was sure to be a decent inn at Braeside, and he would do everything for her. She would be glad--of course she would be glad to see him--as soon as she discovered her dilemma. After all he was her cousin--her blood relation. And Mr. Helbeck? The lad's hand clenched. A clock-face came slowly into view at a wayside station. 8.45. He was now waiting for her at Marsland. For the Squire himself would bring the trap; there was no coachman at Bannisdale. A glow of fierce joy passed through the lad's mind, as he thought of the Squire waiting, the train's arrival, the empty platform, the returning carriage. What would the Squire think? Damn him!--let him think what he liked. * * * * * Meanwhile, in another carriage, Laura leant back with shut eyes, pursued by one waking dream after another. Shadow and flame--the whirling sparks--the cry!--that awful wrenching of the heart in her breast--the parting crowd, and the white-faced child, phantom-like, in its midst. She sat up, shaken anew by the horror of it, trying to put it from her. The carriage was now empty. All the other travellers had dismounted, and she seemed to be rushing through the summer night alone. For the long daylight was nearly done. The purple of the June evening was passing into the more mysterious purple of the starlight; a clear and jewelled sky hung softly over valleys with "seaward parted lips," over woods with the wild rose bushes shining dimly at their edge; over knolls of rocky ground, crowned with white spreading farms; over those distant forms to the far north where the mountains melted into the night. Her heart was still wrung for the orphaned child--prized yesterday, no doubt--they said he was a good father!--desolate to-day--like herself. "Daddy!--where's Daddy?" She laid her brow against the window-sill and let the tears come again, as she thought of that trembling cry. For it was her own--the voice of her own hunger--orphan to orphan. And yet, after this awful day--this never to be forgotten shock and horror--she was not unhappy. Rather, a kind of secret joy possessed her as the train sped onward. Her nature seemed to be sinking wearily into soft gulfs of reconciliation and repose. Froswick, with its struggle and death, its newness and restlessness, was behind her--she was going home, to the old house, with its austerity and peace. Home? Bannisdale, home? How strange! But she was too tired to fight herself to-night--she let the word pass. In her submission to it there was a secret pleasure.