Rachel spoke with a hurried and fierce impatience, that rather startled her companion. It is wonderful that she showed her state of mind so little. There was, indeed, something feverish, and at times even fierce, in her looks and words. But few would have guessed her agony, as she pleaded with the vicar and his wife; or the awful sense of impending consequences that closed over her like the shadow of night, the moment the excitement of her pleading was over--'Rachel, are you mad?--Fly, fly, fly!' was always sounding in her ears. The little street of Gylingden, through which they were passing, looked strange and dream-like. And as she listened to Mrs. Crinkle's babble over the counter, and chose his toys for poor little 'Fairy,' she felt like one trifling on the way to execution. But her warnings and entreaties, I have said, were not quite thrown away; for, although the vicar was inflexible, she had prevailed with his wife, who, at parting, again promised Rachel, that if she could do it, the sale should be stopped. When I returned to Brandon, a few mornings later, Captain Lake received me joyfully at his solitary breakfast. He was in an intense electioneering excitement. The evening papers for the day before lay on the breakfast table. 'A move of some sort suspected--the opposition prints all hinting at tricks and ambuscades. They are whipping their men up awfully. Old Wattles, not half-recovered, went by the early train yesterday, Wealdon tells me. It will probably kill him. Stower went up the day before. Lee says he saw him at Charteris. He never speaks--only a vote--and a fellow that never appears till the minute.' 'Brittle, the member for Stoney-Muckford, was in the next carriage to me yesterday; and he's a slow coach, too,' I threw in. 'It does look as if the division was nearer than they pretend.' 'Just so. I heard from Gybes last evening--what a hand that fellow writes--only a dozen words--"Look out for squalls," and "keep your men in hand." I've sent for Wealdon. I wish the morning papers were come. I'm a quarter past eleven--what are you? The post's in at Dollington fifty minutes before we get our letters here. D--d nonsense--it's all that heavy 'bus of Driver's--I'll change that. They leave London at five, and get to Dollington at half-past ten, and Driver never has them in sooner than twenty minutes past eleven! D--d humbug! I'd undertake to take a dog-cart over the ground in twenty minutes.' 'Is Larkin here?' I asked. 'Oh, no--run up to town. I'm so glad he's away--the clumsiest dog in England--nothing clever--no invention--only a bully--the people hate him. Wealdon's my man. I wish he'd give up that town-clerkship--it can't be worth much, and it's in his way--I'd make it up to him somehow. Will you just look at that--it's the 'Globe'--only six lines, and tell me what _you_ make of it?' 'It does look like it, certainly.'