The words tumbled breathlessly from his lips--he could hardly articulate them in his enthusiasm and excitement. Joseph pressed his friend's hand. He knew well what this opportunity meant to the conscientious and hard-working little journalist, who had never had a chance before. It meant freedom from the terrible and nerve-destroying hunt for food--the horrible living from meal to meal--the life of an animal in this regard, at least, but without the animal's faculties for satisfying its hunger. It meant that Hampson's real talent would now be expressed in its fullest power. "I cannot congratulate you enough, dear friend," he said in a voice which trembled with emotion. "Of all men, you deserve it. I cannot say how happy this makes me, my friend, my brother--for it is as brothers that you and I have lived this long while. I always knew your chance would come. In the long run it always comes to those who are worthy of it. To some it comes early, to others late, but it always comes." "It means everything to me, Joseph," Hampson answered. "And think what it will mean to you also! When you return cured and robust from Wales I shall be able to give you regular employment. You will be able to write any amount of articles for me. It means safety and a new start for us both." For some curious reason Joseph did not immediately reply. Then he spoke slowly, just as the cab rolled under the massive archway which guards the station courtyard. "Thank you, indeed!" he answered. "But when you spoke, I had a sort of presentiment that I should never need your aid. I can't account for it, but it was strong and sudden." "Oh, don't say that, old fellow! You must not be morbid, you know. You will outlive most of us, without a doubt." "I did not mean that I felt that I should die, Hampson. Rather a sensation came to me that I was about to enter some new and strange life which--" The cab stopped. "You and the porter must help me down," Joseph said, with a faint, musing smile of singular sweetness and--so Hampson thought--of inward anticipation and hope. There was yet half an hour before the train was to start. It had been thought better that Joseph should make a night journey to Wales. The weather was very hot, and he would have more chance of rest. "I'll take you to the waiting-room," Hampson said, "and then I will go and get your ticket and some papers. I have told the porter who has your bag what train you are going by. And the guard will come and see if you want anything." Joseph waited in the dingy, empty room while Hampson went away. It was the ordinary bare, uncomfortable place with the hard leather seats, the colored advertisements of seaside resorts, and the long, heavy table shining with hideous yellow varnish. Hampson seemed a long time, Joseph thought, though when he looked up at the clock over the mantel-shelf he saw that the journalist had only been gone about four minutes.