"Did you enjoy yourself--old woman?" asks Jim Podmore. "That we did. We've had such a beautiful day, Jim!" Jim nods, and his hand wanders to Pollypod's neck, and caresses it. "What a colour--she's got--mother!" "Bless her little heart!" is the reply. "It's done her a power o' good." He sees the flowers, and takes them in his hand. "They're for you, Jim," said Mrs. Podmore; "Polly's present for father. She tried to keep awake to give them to you; but she could not keep her little eyes open." He turns the flowers about tenderly, and a troubled look that was in his eyes when he came home vanishes as he lays his great dirty face and bushy head on the pillow. But when he sits down to his supper, with the flowers before him to give an additional zest to his food, the troubled look returns. Mrs. Podmore says quietly, "You're bothering your head about something, Jim;" and draws her chair a little nearer to him. He does not answer her immediately, but makes a pretence of eating, and presently lays his knife and fork on his plate, and pushes them away. "Did you hear--the newspaper boys--a-calling out anything?" he asks. "No, Jim." "Nothing about--a accident?" "No, Jim. Has there been one?" "There's been--another smash-up--on our line. A lot o' people--hurt--badly. I saw some of 'em. It made me sick." He takes the fork, and plays with it nervously. A look of apprehension flashes into Mrs. Podmore's eyes as she notices his agitation, and she asks, with white lips, "It wasn't your doing, Jim, was it? Don't say it was your doing!" "No, it wasn't my doing," he answers; but he evidently takes it to heart almost as much as if he had been to blame. "It's bad enough, Jim," said Mrs. Podmore, relieved of her fear; "but it would ha' been worse if you was to blame. It ain't your fault?" "It ain't my fault--no; but it might ha' been--it might ha' been. It warn't his fault, either." "Whose, then, Jim?"