AS the train came in, Wallace gazed about for the delicate shy child of his recollection; and failing to find her, he laughed at himself. Of course she was child no longer. He had to find a young lady; and what particular type of young lady, it was impossible so much as to guess. For a while, nobody presented herself who could in any degree answer to the mental picture which he failed to banish. And he began to think that she must either have failed to arrive or have betaken herself off, when a gloved hand touched his. "How do you do?" a sober voice said. And Wallace's curious gaze met a pale girlish face, with brown eyes, wistful and sad as ever of old. Late trouble had brought back the look which he knew, which a few weeks earlier would have been lacking. "How do you do?" she repeated, with a faint smile, into which some amusement stole. "I'm very sorry. I ought to have seen—I mean, of course, I couldn't know you," apologised Wallace, trying to take her bag. "Am I so altered?" "Well, yes—no—I'm not sure yet. Will you have a cab?—I mean, of course you must have a cab. What luggage have you got?" "Only a trunk and a Gladstone bag. A porter has gone after them." "Hadn't we better go after him?" "Thank you." Lettice walked by his side, and then stood dreamily outside the throng into which he plunged. She had a semi-bewildered sensation, for crowds were new and somewhat overpowering after years of country life. All through the earlier part of the journey a load of distress had pressed her down. How to endure the secret let out by Keith; how to bear with patience the false accusation from which at any moment she might clear herself; how not to loathe Theodosia with a detestation which should darken all her spiritual life;—these problems had been of absorbing interest. For a while they had filled her whole horizon. But as the train rushed on, each moment widening the distance between herself and Mrs. Bryant, each instant bringing her nearer to Felix and the Valentines, a sense of quiet crept into the turmoil. First, the old comfort—old, yet always new; God knew, God loved, and it was the will of God. In His love and in His knowledge, He permitted this; therefore it was well. Then followed pity for her injurer; pity that Theodosia could so act, could so debase herself; pity that Theodosia's child should know what must slay his esteem for her,—and a child's love is largely a love of esteem, because it is almost of necessity a looking up love. Verily, Mrs. Bryant had prepared a sharp scourge for her own future. All this came to Lettice as she was borne swiftly eastward, and the wrath and loathing died out, till at length she only felt bodily weary and mentally bruised, like one who has gone through a heavy conflict. "These two yours?" asked Wallace, coming up, with an indication towards the articles in question. "That all?" "Quite all, thank you." "I say, you've found the journey rather long, haven't you?"