s and
others, rugs and shawls innumerable--all that he possessed in the shape
of wraps, besides those which she had with her. What more could a man
do? If she had been young he would have bought her sugar-plums. All that
they meant were the dumb anxieties of his own breast, and the vague
longing to do something, anything that would be a help to her on her
desolate way.

"You will send me a word, aunt, as soon as you get there?"

"Oh, at once, John."

"You will tell me how she is--say as much as you can--no three words,
like that. I shall not leave town till I hear."

"Oh, John, why should this keep you from your family? I could telegraph
there as easily as here."

He made a gesture almost of anger. "Do you think I am likely to put
myself out of the way--not to be ready if you should want me?"

How should she want him?--a mother summoned to her daughter at such a
moment--but she did not say so to trouble him more: for John had got to
that maddening point of anxiety when nothing but doing something, or at
least keeping ready to do something, flattering yourself that there must
be something to do, affords any balm to the soul.

He saw her away by that night train, crowded with people going
home--people noisy with gayety, escaping from their daily cares to the
family meeting, the father's house, all the associations of pleasure
and warmth and consolation--cold, but happy, in their third-class
compartments--not wrapped up in every conceivable solace as she was, yet
no one, perhaps, so heavy-hearted. He watched for the last glimpse of
her face just as the train plunged into the darkness, and saw her smile
and wave her hand to him; then he, too, plunged into the darkness like
the train. He walked and walked through the solitary streets not knowing
where he was going, unable to rest. Had he ever been, as people say, in
love with Elinor? He could not tell--he had never betrayed it by word or
look if he had. He had never taken any step to draw her near him, to
persuade her to be his and not another's; on the contrary, he had
avoided everything that could lead to that. Neither could he say, "She
was as my sister," which his relationship might have warranted him in
doing. It was neither the one nor the other--she was not his love nor
his sister--she was simply Elinor; and perhaps she was dying; perhaps
the news he would receive next day would be the worst that the heart
can hear. He walked and walked through those dreary, s