ith the handle
in her hand. She saw him coming who was more than all the world to her.
But she did not look twice. No, she would not look twice. She would wait
until they were within, alone, together.

Side by side with him walked Hugh Ritson. Could it be possible? And was
it he who had brought her husband? Ah! he had repented, and it was only
she who had been bitter to the end. How generous of him! how cruel of
her!

Her eyes fell, and a warm flush overspread her cheeks as he who came
first stepped into the carriage. She did not look again at him, nor did
he look again at her. She knew he did not, though her eyes were down.
"Oh, when we are alone!" she thought, and then she turned to Hugh
Ritson.

The heavenly smile was still on her beautiful face, and the deep light
in her eyes spoke of mingled joy and grief.

"Hugh, I fear, I fear," she faltered, "I have been hard and cruel. Let
us be friends; let me be your dearest sister."

He looked at her in silence. His infirm foot trailed a pace. He saw what
was in her heart, and he knew well what was in his own heart, too; he
thought of the blow that he was about to strike her.

She held out her hand, and took in hers his own unresisting fingers. Ay,
he knew that there and then he was about to break that forgiving heart
forever. He knew who had stepped into that carriage.

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. The man in him could bear up no
longer. He broke down; he could not speak; he was choked with emotion.

She turned to the landlady, who stood near, twitching at the ribbons of
her bonnet and peering into the carriage.

"Good-bye, Mrs. Drayton, and God bless you for what you have done for my
husband!"

The landlady muttered something that was inaudible; she was confused;
she stammered, and then was silent.

Greta stepped into the carriage. The guard was standing at the door. The
bell had been rung. The train had been signaled. The whistle had
sounded. The clocks were striking midnight.

"Wait! Wait!"

It was a voice from the end of the platform. The guard turned with a
smile to see who called on a train to wait. An old gentleman in silk
stockings and gaiters, with long white hair flowing under the broad brim
of a low-crowned hat, came panting to the only door that was still open.

"Quick, sir, it's moving; in with you!"

"Mr. Christian!" cried Greta, and throwing her arms about him, she drew
him into the carriage. Then the train began to move away.