Margaret smiled over this request. She had not a friend in the world she cared to tell about her writing. Yes! one friend, Sir Albert Gerald, and to him she would send her little book and write. He had been so kind, and he was very good. She was roused from these reflections by the entrance of Mr. Stevens into the carriage. He had been in a smoking-carriage part of the way, and he now came in, bringing various papers to while away the tedium of the journey. His entrance broke up her reverie. She had grown to like him, though she sometimes thought how much finer a character his would be if he could only put suspicion more on one side. His first impulse was to doubt everything and everybody; and his caution was carried to such an extreme that his friendships were few, and only extended after a long period of probation. The train stopped at York, and Margaret, under his escort, went to get some refreshment. As she was returning to her carriage she heard her name uttered in surprise, and in another moment Sir Albert Gerald himself stood beside her. She was unfeignedly glad to see him, and they plunged into quite an animated conversation, forgetting for the moment everything save that accident had brought them once more together. Margaret was first recalled to the present by Mr. Stevens, who reminded her that the train would go on without her if she did not hurry. Even then she turned naturally to Sir Albert, and he hurried along with her; and, to Mr. Stevens's great dissatisfaction, got in and calmly sat down opposite to her. Why the older man took exception to this no one can say; but his suspicions were all on the alert, and everything the young man did seemed to him significant. Margaret, of course, introduced them to each other, explaining, as Mr. Stevens thought, in a manner utterly unnecessary, that he was travelling down to Scotland to take care of her. But the brief words seemed only an interruption to the flow of talk. At first they both tried to bring him into the conversation, but in vain. He sat grimly in a corner, determined not to be won over by a good-looking young fellow of whom he knew nothing, and wondering at Margaret's glow of colour and animation. Once he heard a little laugh, and he looked up surprised he could make nothing of their conversation. Some one had written a book of poetry--but what could there be said about such nonsense? Any sane man who had something to say could surely say it in good honest prose. "Do you like poetry," asked Sir Albert, suddenly turning to him pleasantly. "No, I don't," Mr. Stevens answered with quite unnecessary shortness. "I never see the use of it." "If useful things only were given to us here," said Margaret, gently, "our lives would be very dull." "I have no poetry in my life, and I do not feel dull," he answered in a softer manner to her.