there.

Stephen walked up and stood beside him without speaking. Two men at this
moment crept out from among the wheels of the waiting train.

'The carriage is light enough,' said one in a grim tone. 'Light as
vanity; full of nothing.'

'Nothing in size, but a good deal in signification,' said the other, a
man of brighter mind and manners.

Smith then perceived that to their train was attached that same carriage
of grand and dark aspect which had haunted them all the way from London.

'You are going on, I suppose?' said Knight, turning to Stephen, after
idly looking at the same object.

'Yes.'

'We may as well travel together for the remaining distance, may we not?'

'Certainly we will;' and they both entered the same door.

Evening drew on apace. It chanced to be the eve of St. Valentine's--that
bishop of blessed memory to youthful lovers--and the sun shone low under
the rim of a thick hard cloud, decorating the eminences of the landscape
with crowns of orange fire. As the train changed its direction on a
curve, the same rays stretched in through the window, and coaxed open
Knight's half-closed eyes.

'You will get out at St. Launce's, I suppose?' he murmured.

'No,' said Stephen, 'I am not expected till to-morrow.' Knight was
silent.

'And you--are you going to Endelstow?' said the younger man pointedly.

'Since you ask, I can do no less than say I am, Stephen,' continued
Knight slowly, and with more resolution of manner than he had shown all
the day. 'I am going to Endelstow to see if Elfride Swancourt is still
free; and if so, to ask her to be my wife.'

'So am I,' said Stephen Smith.

'I think you'll lose your labour,' Knight returned with decision.

'Naturally you do.' There was a strong accent of bitterness in Stephen's
voice. 'You might have said HOPE instead of THINK,' he added.

'I might have done no such thing. I gave you my opinion. Elfride
Swancourt may have loved you once, no doubt, but it was when she was so
young that she hardly knew her own mind.'

'Thank you,' said Stephen laconically. 'She knew her mind as well as I
did. We are the same age. If you hadn't interfered----'

'Don't say that--don't say it, Stephen! How can you make out that I
interfered? Be just, please!'

'Well,' said his friend, 'she was mine before she was yours--you know
that! And it seemed a hard thing to find you had got her, and that if
it had not been for you, all might have turned out well for me.' Stephe