him in feverish clouds, as it came to his mind that this wild morning, hysterical with fatigue and excitement, was the Sunday--the day of his special labours--the central point of all his former life. Chaos gloomed around the poor minister, who, in his misery, was human enough to remember Beecher's smile and Phoebe Tozer's invitation, and to realise how all the "Chapel folks" would compare notes, and contrast their own pastor, to whom they had become accustomed, with the new voice from Homerton, which, half in pride and half in disgust, Vincent acknowledged to be more in their way. He fancied he could see them all collecting into their mean pews, prepared to inaugurate the "coorse" for which Tozer had struggled, and the offence upon their faces when the minister's absence was known, and the sharp stimulus which that offence would give to their appreciation of the new preacher--all this, while he was driving over the bleak Northumberland wilds, with the cutting wind from the hills in his face, and the church-bell in his distracted ear, breaking the Sunday! Not a bright spot, so far as he could perceive, was anywhere around him, in earth, or sky, or sea. Sunday night!--once more the church-bells, the church-going groups, the floating world, which he had many a time upbraided from the pulpit seeking its pleasure. But it was in London now, where he stood in utter exhaustion, but incapable of rest, not knowing where to turn. Then the thought occurred to him that something might be learned at the railway stations of a party which few people could see without remarking it. He waited till the bustle of arrival was over, and then began to question the porters. One after another shook his head, and had nothing to say. But the men were interested, and gathered in a little knot round him, trying what they could recollect, with the ready humanity of their class. "I'd speak to the detective police, sir, if I was you," suggested one; "it's them as finds out all that happens nowadays." Then a little gleam of light penetrated the darkness. One man began to recall a light-haired gentleman with a mustache, and two ladies, who "went off sudden in a cab, with no luggage." "An uncommon swell he did look," said the porter, instinctively touching his cap to Vincent, on the strength of the connection; "and, my eyes! she was a beauty, that one in the blue veil. It was--let me see--Wednesday night; no--not Wednesday--that day as the up-train was an hour late--Friday afternoon, to be sure. It was me as called the cab, and I won't deny as the gen'leman _was_ a gen'leman. Went to the London Bridge station, sir; Dover line; no luggage; I took particular notice at the time, though it went out o' my head first minute as you asked me.--Cab, sir? Yes. Here you are--here's the last on the stand.--London Bridge Station, Dover line."