him no 'arm, bless ye!'

'Well, don't you go trying it again, Wilcox, that's all. Mind what I
say,' said Uncle Solomon, with visible relief, 'else you and me'll
'ave words and part. Let her go,' and they drove off.

He gave Mark much good advice on the way, such as wealthy uncles seem
to secrete and exude almost unconsciously, as toads yield moisture;
but Mark paid only a moderate degree of attention to it as they spun
past the low dim edges; he hardly noticed what could be seen along the
road even, which was not much--a gable-end or a haystack starting out
for an instant from the fog, or a shadowy labourer letting himself
through a gate--he was thinking of the girl whose eyes had met his the
afternoon before.

He had dreamed of her all that night--a confused ridiculous dream, but
with a charm about it which was lingering still; he thought they had
met and understood one another at once, and he had taken her to the
village church where he had first seen her, and they had a private
box, and Uncle Solomon took the chair, while old Mr. Shelford, Trixie,
and young Langton were all in the choir, which was more like an
orchestra. It was not particularly connected or reverent, but she had
not been included in the general travesty--his sleeping brain had
respected her image even in its waywardness, and presented it as vivid
and charming as in life, so that the dream with all its absurdity
seemed to have brought her nearer to him, and he could not resist the
fancy that _she_ might have some recollection of it too.

A low hum in the still air, and distant reports and choked railway
whistles told them they were near the station, but the fog had grown
so much denser that there was no other indication of it, until Mr.
Lightowler brought up sharply opposite the end of an inclined covered
staircase, which seemed to spring out of nothing and lead nowhere,
where they left the dog-cart in charge of a flyman and went up to the
platform.

There a few old gentlemen with rosy faces were stamping up and down
and slapping their chests, exchanging their 'Raw morning this, sir's,'
'Ah, it is indeed's,' with an air of good men bearing up under an
undeserved persecution.

'Sharp morning this to stand about in,' said Uncle Solomon; 'let's go
into the waiting-room, there's a fire there.' The waiting-room was the
usual drab little room, with a bottle of water and tumblers on a bare
stained table, and local advertisements on the dingy walls; t