Anne joined him at the fire-place. “I understand it--I’ll help you. Did you say it was the up train you wanted?” “What is the name of the station you stop at?” Arnold told her. She followed the intricate net-work of lines and figures with her finger--suddenly stopped--looked again to make sure--and turned from the time-table with a face of blank despair. The last train for the day had gone an hour since. In the silence which followed that discovery, a first flash of lightning passed across the window and the low roll of thunder sounded the outbreak of the storm. “What’s to be done now?” asked Arnold. In the face of the storm, Anne answered without hesitation, “You must take a carriage, and drive.” “Drive? They told me it was three-and-twenty miles, by railway, from the station to my place--let alone the distance from this inn to the station.” “What does the distance matter? Mr. Brinkworth, you can’t possibly stay here!” A second flash of lightning crossed the window; the roll of the thunder came nearer. Even Arnold’s good temper began to be a little ruffled by Anne’s determination to get rid of him. He sat down with the air of a man who had made up his mind not to leave the house. “Do you hear that?” he asked, as the sound of the thunder died away grandly, and the hard pattering of the rain on the window became audible once more. “If I ordered horses, do you think they would let me have them, in such weather as this? And, if they did, do you suppose the horses could face it on the moor? No, no, Miss Silvester--I am sorry to be in the way, but the train has gone, and the night and the storm have come. I have no choice but to stay here!” Anne still maintained her own view, but less resolutely than before. “After what you have told the landlady,” she said, “think of the embarrassment, the cruel embarrassment of our position, if you stop at the inn till to-morrow morning!” “Is that all?” returned Arnold. Anne looked up at him, quickly and angrily. No! he was quite unconscious of having said any thing that could offend her. His rough masculine sense broke its way unconsciously through all the little feminine subtleties and delicacies of his companion, and looked the position practically in the face for what it was worth, and no more. “Where’s the embarrassment?” he asked, pointing to the bedroom door. “There’s your room, all ready for you. And here’s the sofa, in this room, all ready for _me._ If you had seen the places I have slept in at sea--!” She interrupted him, without ceremony. The places he had slept in, at sea, were of no earthly importance. The one question to consider, was the place he was to sleep in that night. “If you must stay,” she rejoined, “can’t you get a room in some other part of the house?”