They left Wolfpits in darkness, whispering their farewells to Mrs Mamble for fear of waking the children, whom Mary, dressing quietly, had left asleep. The nearest station to Chapel Green was that of Llandwlas, a minute hamlet hidden amid the springs of the Barbel, a little to the north of the single line that winds painfully out of Wales between the dominant masses of the forests of Radnor and Clun. From Wolfpits, cross-country, this made a five-mile walk. A dripping mist hid the land, and they saw no soul until they reached the station. There, on the raw, deserted platform, where the porter had lit a single oil lamp to show that the day had begun, they waited, walking up and down to keep themselves warm. They were early, and the only other sign of life was the yellow square of the stationmaster’s bedroom in the adjoining cottage. Even if daylight had come, the density of the mist would have given them the same sense of isolation. Little by little the place became alive: first a float drove up with a couple of milk-cans; next came a gnomish figure who carried a stick, with dead rabbits slung from it over his shoulder: then a noisy party of two, whom Abner recognised as his fellow-witnesses. ‘That’s Connor and Atwell come up,’ he said. ‘Let’s keep at the other end,’ Mary whispered, moving away. Two more traps arrived, the first containing the Hinds, the second Badger, alone, and last, the small, energetic figure of George’s mother. All these people, whom a chance blow had precipitated into the same grim business, stood waiting for the train singly or in isolated groups of two. A straining of wires was heard, and the fogged, red eye of the signal changed to green. The stationmaster threw up the shutter of the booking office with a rattle. Abner found himself wedged in front of the window between Badger and Mr Hind. Mrs Malpas, fidgeting with her purse, stood waiting in the background. As Abner rejoined Mary, a sound of distant panting was heard, and a minute later the front of the engine loomed enormous through the fog. They entered a third-class smoker at the end of the train. The milk-cans were rolled over the echoing platform into the van, and the train moved off with a clank of couplings and a hiss of white steam. Down through the valleys, mile on mile they wound. The train rocked on the gradients until it seemed that the carriages must touch the black edge of the woods. The mist turned white and dazzling. The sun had risen. The Sixteenth Chapter AFTER nightfall on the same evening that train of old-fashioned coaches came blundering back along the curves of the Llandwlas line. The snorting of its engine was the only sound, as its yellow windows and fire-belching funnel were the only light, in all those miles of woodland and valley. The train ran late as usual, stuttering up the gradients as though the weight it carried were too much for the power of its groaning pistons.