“I didn’t expect you,” said his daughter. The engine-driver winced; then, reassuming his cheery, airy manner, he said: “Oh, have you heard then? Well, and what do you think——?” “I think it is soon enough,” she replied. At her brief censure the little man made an impatient gesture, and said coaxingly, yet with dangerous coldness: “Well, what’s a man to do? It’s no sort of life for a man of my years, to sit at my own hearth like a stranger. And if I’m going to marry again it may as well be soon as late—what does it matter to anybody?” The woman did not reply, but turned and went into the house. The man in the engine-cab stood assertive, till she returned with a cup of tea and a piece of bread and butter on a plate. She went up the steps and stood near the footplate of the hissing engine. “You needn’t ’a’ brought me bread an’ butter,” said her father. “But a cup of tea”—he sipped appreciatively—“it’s very nice.” He sipped for a moment or two, then: “I hear as Walter’s got another bout on,” he said. “When hasn’t he?” said the woman bitterly. “I heered tell of him in the ‘Lord Nelson’ braggin’ as he was going to spend that b—— afore he went: half a sovereign that was.” “When?” asked the woman. “A’ Sat’day night—I know that’s true.” “Very likely,” she laughed bitterly. “He gives me twenty-three shillings.” “Aye, it’s a nice thing, when a man can do nothing with his money but make a beast of himself!” said the grey-whiskered man. The woman turned her head away. Her father swallowed the last of his tea and handed her the cup. “Aye,” he sighed, wiping his mouth. “It’s a settler, it is——” He put his hand on the lever. The little engine strained and groaned, and the train rumbled towards the crossing. The woman again looked across the metals. Darkness was settling over the spaces of the railway and trucks: the miners, in grey sombre groups, were still passing home. The winding-engine pulsed hurriedly, with brief pauses. Elizabeth Bates looked at the dreary flow of men, then she went indoors. Her husband did not come.