k in the gate and up the drive across the hill, the hill they
often ran across in the old days! They would be quite silent, and walk
into the house silently. The building, too, would be silent, and he
would take her from one room to another in silence, and when she had
seen everything he would look into her eyes and say, "Well?" It would be
all so like a wonderful story, a day of magic!... Martin Cosgrave sprang
from the bench and went to the edge of the platform, staring down the
long level road, with its two rails tapering almost together in the
distance. Not a sign of a train. Would it never come in? Had anything
happened the boat? He walked up and down with energy, holding the lapel
of his coat, saying to himself, "I must not be thinking of things like
this. It is foolishness. Whatever is to happen will happen, and that's
all about it. I am quite at ease, quite cool!"

At last it came, steaming and blowing. Windows were lowered, carriage
doors flew open, people ran up and down. Martin Cosgrave stood a little
away, tense, drawn, his eyes sweeping down the people. Suddenly
something shot through him; an old sensation, an old thrill, made his
whole being tingle, his mind exult, and then there was the most
exquisite relaxation. How long it was since he felt like this before!
His eyes were burning upon a familiar figure that had come from a
carriage, the figure of a girl in a navy blue coat and skirt, her back
turned, struggling with parcels, helped by the hands of invisible people
from within the carriage. Martin Cosgrave strode down the platform,
eagerness, joy, sense of proprietorship, already in his stride.

"Rose!" he exclaimed while the girl's back was still turned to him.

His voice shook in spite of him. The woman turned about sharply.

Martin Cosgrave gave a little start back. It was not Rose Dempsey, but
her sister, Sheela. How like Rose she had grown!

"Martin!" she exclaimed, putting out her hand. He gave it a hurried
shake and then searched the railway carriage with burning eyes. The
people he saw there were all strangers, tired-looking travellers. When
he turned from the railway carriage Sheela Dempsey was rushing with her
parcels into a waiting-room. He strode after her. He looked at the girl.
How unlike Rose she was after all! Nobody--nobody--could ever be like
Rose Dempsey!

"Where is Rose?" he asked.

Sheela Dempsey looked up into the face of Martin Cosgrave and saw there
what she had half-dreade