"For my sake!" she repeated. "Oh! Christie, I want nothing from him." "But I do for you, and for myself I would die in the old place; for you, I'd best keep quiet a bit longer." She said no more of her hopes and wishes, but her parting words were: "When you're ready I'm ready; not but what railways are fearful things to be sent about the world, with nothing but a screech and a puff of smoke." Mr. Stevens in the meantime entered into various details with Mrs. Dorriman, even helping her to settle what things she would take with her or leave behind. "There is one thing you must take, as Sandford expressly wishes you to do so." He spoke looking at her a little curiously. A flash of recollection came to her. "The box and papers," she exclaimed. "_A_ box and papers. Never again shall I say that all women are full of curiosity! I know differently now." "You know everything, I think," said Mrs. Dorriman. CHAPTER XI. Mrs. Dorriman was very quiet all the long journey, with the tedious changes going to Renton. Her heart was overflowing. Her sweet disposition, which had enabled her so completely to forgive the wrong done her about Inchbrae by the brother she was going to see, made her fearful lest some disclosures now might give Mr. Stevens an unfavourable idea of Mr. Sandford. She knew that there was no liking to begin with, and that the man she was learning every day to love more and more resented for her, more than she did now for herself, the unfair treatment she had met with at her brother's hands. Mr. Stevens was very upright and very honourable, and he conceived, as most people would, that for any man to take advantage of a woman's ignorance of business matters, and deceive her for his own particular benefit, was iniquitous; and Mrs. Dorriman, with her great unselfishness and humility, her anxiety to do right at any cost to herself, ought to have been sacred. The nearness of the relationship only made it all the worse; and he could not bear to hear his Anne--as he now called her--extenuating and pleading for this brother. She learned to understand this, and to shun the subject; but it was impossible for her, now that she was whirling along this same road, not to feel intensely the contrast between then and now. The comfort of having everything so quietly arranged for her--to have no anxieties because _he_ was looking after everything--was quite indescribable. One terrible Junction, where she had formerly stood in despair, and had been shouted at by porters, and pushed here and there, lived in her memory as a sort of gulf, out of which the kind hand of Providence alone sent her in the right direction, now seemed a quiet enough station, as, with her hand underneath his arm, he went quietly round and ordered the porters about in a manner she never would have dared to do.