"Then there's an end of you!" cried Jeremiah, and by a determined and powerful effort he succeeded in throwing the lower portion of Tom's body across the rails. Fortunately Tom's head was off the line, and his left arm was wound tightly round Jeremiah's neck. The train passed over Tom's foot, and cut it clean away, but Tom, although he had swooned, held on like grim death, and did not even feel Jeremiah's teeth fixed in his arm. In this position they were found a moment or two afterward, when the train was stopped, and it was with great difficulty that the engine-driver and passengers could part him who lived from him who looked like dead. The news ran through the length and breadth of the kingdom the next morning, and telegraph wires flashed it all over the world. Tom Barley did not wake to find himself famous, for the reason that for several weeks he was in delirium, and very, very near to death. But none the less was he made famous and dubbed a hero of heroes for the wondrous battle he had fought. Newspapers and magazines sang his praises, and poets deified him. The days of Homer died not in Homer's verse. We have as glorious heroes to-day as have been handed down, immortalized from those by-gone times. We have hearts as valiant, and souls as noble, and love as sweet and pure, in this age which is dubbed commercial and prosaic; and though Tom Barley has a wooden leg, he is worthy to shake hands with Achilles. No such desire possesses him, or possessed him, when he saw Phoebe sitting by his bedside in the hospital. "You are getting strong again, Tom?" "Yes, Miss Phoebe; thank God! Is everybody well?" "Everybody, Tom." "Your aunt and uncle, and Miss Fanny and Master Robert?" "They are all well, Tom. They send their love, and will come and see you when they are allowed." "They are very good. And Mr. Cornwall, Miss Phoebe--he is well, I hope?" "Quite well, Tom. He is below, waiting for me." "I am glad to hear it, Miss Phoebe. But perhaps I am making a mistake." "In what, Tom?" "In calling you Miss Phoebe." "No, Tom." She held up her left hand. "If I dared to ask a favour?" "You may dare to ask anything, Tom." "That I may be allowed to come to the wedding?" "Indeed, Tom, I think that is what we are waiting for. We could not be happy without you." "I can't thank you now, Miss Phoebe," said Tom, tears gathering in his eyes. "I will when I'm stronger. There is another thing." "Yes, Tom?" "Say that you forgive me!" "Ah, Tom!" "It will make me happy, Miss Phoebe." "Only because you have that foolish idea in your head--Tom, I forgive you!" She stooped and kissed him, as she had kissed him on the morning he brought her from Parksides and gave her into the care of her good Aunt Leth. "I am truly grateful," murmured Tom, in a choking voice, as he turned his face to the wall. CHAPTER XIX. OFF FOR THE HONEY-MOON. "Welcome the coming, speed the parting, guest." Therefore shall our last chapter be short.