By the time I had made up my mind which to take, and inquired where a lad could be found who would carry down my portmanteau to the station, it was too late to catch the first train, and I therefore had three hours to spare before I could leave. This delay, in my anxious condition, worried me, and I was at a loss how to occupy the interval. If I had been wise, I should never have quitted that station till I did so in the train. But, alas! I decided to take a stroll instead. It was a sad walk, for my father's image was constantly before my eyes, and I could hardly bear to think of his being ill. I thought of all his goodness and forbearance to me, and wondered what would become of us if he were not to recover. I wandered on, broken-hearted, and repenting deeply of all my ingratitude, and the ill return I had made him for his love to me, and I looked forward eagerly to being able to throw myself in his arms once more, and beg his forgiveness. Thus I mused far into the morning, when it occurred to me to look at my watch. Was it possible? It wanted not half an hour of the time for the train, and I was more than two miles from the place. I started to walk rapidly, and soon came in sight of the town. What fatal madness impelled me at that moment to stand and look at a ploughing match that was taking place in a field by the roadside? For a minute or two my anxiety, my father, the train, all were forgotten in the excitement of that contest. Then I recovered myself and dashed on like the wind. Once more (as I thought but for an instant) I paused to examine a gipsy encampment on the border of the wood, and then, reminded by a distant whistle, hurried forward. Alas! as I dashed into the station the train was slowly turning the corner and I sunk down in an agony of despair and humiliation. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ When I reached home at midnight, my mother met me at the door. "Well, you are come at last," she said quietly. "Yes, mother; but father, how is he?" "Come and see him." I sprang up the stairs beside her. She opened the door softly, and bade me enter. My father lay there dead. "He waited for you all day," said my mother, "and died not an hour ago. His last words were, `Charlie is late.' Oh, Charlie, why did you not come sooner?" Then she knelt with me beside my dead father. And, in that dark lonely chamber, that night, the turning-point of my life was reached. Boys, I am an old man now; but, believe me, since that awful moment I have never, to my knowledge, dawdled again! CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. A NIGHT ON SCAFELL PIKE.