It was in the second year after my marriage, when I had been away on my travels for some weeks, that I heard from my sister that a fever had broken out in the neighbourhood of our home, and that Mary was down with it. Kitty wrote hopefully, saying it was a mild attack, and she trusted by the time I was home her patient would be quite convalescent. I had unbounded faith in Kitty, so that I accepted her cheerful view of things. But, a few evenings later, after a long, tiring day, I returned to the hotel where I was then staying, and found a telegram awaiting me. My heart stood still as I saw the ominous yellow envelope, for I knew my sister would not have sent for me without urgent need. The message was to say that, although Kitty still hoped for the best, a serious change had taken place, and I should return at once. "Don't delay an hour; come off immediately," she said. I was not likely to delay. I paid up my reckoning at the hotel, directed that my baggage should be sent on next day, and in less than half an hour from the time I had opened the telegram I rushed, heated and breathless, into the primitive little railway station--the only one which that part of the country boasted for miles round. I gained the platform in time to see the red light on the end of the departing train as it disappeared into the mouth of the tunnel a few hundred yards down the line. For a moment I was unable to realize my ill fortune. I stood gazing stupidly before me in a bewildered way. Then the station-master, who knew me by sight, came up, saying sympathetically:-- "Just missed her, sir, by two seconds!" "Yes," I answered briefly, beginning to understand it all now, and chafing irritably at the enforced delay. "When is the next train?" "Six five in the morning, sir. Nothing more to-night." "Nothing more to-night!" I almost shouted. "There must be! At any rate, there is the evening express from the junction; I have been by it scores of times!" "Very likely, sir; but that's a through train, it don't touch here--never stops till it reaches the junction." The man's quiet tone carried conviction with it. I was silent for a moment, and then asked when the express left the junction. "Nine fifteen," was the answer. [Illustration: "THE STATION-MASTER CAME UP."] "How far is the junction from this by road; could I do it in time?" "Out of the question, sir. It would take one who knew the road the best part of three hours to drive." I looked away to my left, where the green hill-side rose up steep and clear against the evening sky. It was one of the most mountainous quarters of England, and the tunnel that pierced the hill was a triumph of engineering skill, even in these days when science sticks at nothing. Pointing to the brick archway I said, musingly:-- "And yet, once through the tunnel, how close at hand the junction station seems." "That's true enough, sir; the other side the tunnel it is not half a mile down the line." "What length is it?"