The journey seems interminable. He flings a pile of papers unread on the opposite seat, puts a cigar between his teeth, and forgets to light it, closes his tired eyes, which only quickens and excites his overwrought imagination, till finally the train steams into the drowsy little station of Copthorne. Philip walks at the fastest possible speed across the meadows. There is the gate on which Eleanor perched herself the night before their wedding, declaring she _would_ dangle her feet whether she was to be Mrs. Roche or not. Then the green lane, where she asked him to wait till the following spring. He remembers her words distinctly. She had said them so lightly in reference to their union: "When the birds begin to sing, then I will marry you, Philip." But he had proved himself the stronger, and carried off his prize that same month. Now the spring is here. The birds are singing--mocking, jeering. The old farmhouse is in sight--he pauses. Oh, what a moment of suspense! No Eleanor comes across the garden to greet him. It all looks dead--still. He can hear Rover's feeble bark--the sound savours of decay. Then Philip walks forward, and his shadow falls across the porch. The bell peals. Mrs. Grebby starts at the ring, and brushes past the little farmhouse servant hurrying to the door. "Why, it's never Mr. Roche!" she exclaims. [Illustration: "Why, it's never Mr. Roche!" she exclaims.] "Yes," he replies; "I have come for Eleanor. Where is she?" Mrs. Grebby sinks on to the seat in the porch, and stares at him open-mouthed. "What do yer mean?" she gasps at last. "There ain't no harm come to my dearie!" She wrings her hands despairingly. "Has Eleanor left you?" he asks in a voice so strangely unfamiliar that he hardly knows it for his own. "Three days ago. She went 'ome, to be sure, as bright and as bonny as could be, looking that pretty, I says to my old man 'It's well she's not travellin' alone.'" "Who was with her?" questions Philip intently, mastering his intense emotion. "A friend what came the day you telegraphed. He said 'e'd see her back safe and sound. I packed 'er clothes with my own hands, I did, she never touched a thing, and we drove them both behind Black Bess to the station, with Rover following at the wheel." A low hiss breaks from Philip's lips. "And this man," he asks fiercely, impatiently, biting his lips. "What was he like?" "Oh! 'e was a beautiful gentleman, so well dressed and handsome, Mr., let me see, Mr. Quinton I think she called him." Philip has heard enough, he turns away with a groan. Mrs. Grebby watches the dark despair creep over his features in blank amazement. "What does it mean?" she asks, detaining him with a trembling hand. "It means," replies Philip in a choking voice, "that Eleanor has left me." A cry escapes Mrs. Grebby, she buries her face in her apron, rocking herself to and fro, moaning pitifully.