sweet to sever,
Poor Wisdom's chance against a glance
Is now as weak as ever!

Thos. Moore.

The station at Sutton stood perched up above the village on a high
embankment, upon which the railway crossed the valley from the hills that
lay to the north to those that lay to the south of it. Up at the station
it was always draughty and generally cold. To-day, this very early
morning, about ten minutes before the first up train is due, it is not
only cold and draughty, but it is also wet and foggy. A damp, white mist
fills the valley below, and curls up the bare hill sides above; it hangs
chillingly about the narrow, open shed on the up side of the station,
covering the wooden bench within it with thick beads of moisture, so that
no man dare safely sit down on it, and clinging coldly and penetratingly
to the garments of a tall young lady in a long ulster and a thick veil,
who is slowly walking up and down the platform.

The solitary porter on duty eyes her inquiringly. "Going by the up train,
Miss?" he says, touching his hat respectfully as he passes her.

"No," says Vera, blushing hotly under the thick shelter of her veil, and
then adds with that readiness of explanation to which persons who have a
guilty conscience are prone, "I am only waiting to see somebody off." An
uncalled-for piece of information which has only the effect of setting
the bucolic mind of the local porter agog with curiosity and wonderment.

Presently the few passengers for the early train begin to arrive; a
couple of farmers going into the market town, a village girl in a smart
bonnet, an old woman in a dirty red shawl, carrying a bundle; that is
all. Maurice is very late. Vera remembers that he always puts off
starting to catch a train till the very last minute. She stands waiting
for him at the further end of the platform, as far away as she can from
the knot of rustic passengers, with a beating heart and a fever of
impatience within her.

The train is signalled, and at that very minute the dog-cart from
Kynaston drives up at last! Even then he has to get his ticket, and to
convey himself and his portmanteau across from the other side of the
line. Their good-bye will be short indeed!

The train steams up, and Maurice hurries forward followed by the porter
bearing his rugs and sticks; he does not even see her, standing a little
back, as she does, so as not to attract more attention than need be. But
when all his things are put int