if not the glass, then the gel! Har--ar--ar!
Good-day t' ye, an' thank ye kindly!"

He went off then, and a few minutes later the train came gliding in. The
whirr and noise of the panting engine confused Helmsley's ears and dazed
his brain, after his months of seclusion in such a quiet little spot as
Weircombe,--and he was seized with quite a nervous terror and doubt as
to whether he would be able, after all, to undertake the journey he had
decided upon, alone. But an energetic porter put an end to his
indecision by opening all the doors of the various compartments in the
train and banging them to again, whereupon he made up his mind quickly,
and managed, with some little difficulty, to clamber up the high step of
a third-class carriage and get in before the aforesaid porter had the
chance to push him in head foremost. In another few minutes the engine
whistle set up a deafening scream, and the train ran swiftly out of the
station. He was off;--the hills, the sea, were left behind--and
Weircombe--restful, simple little Weircombe, seemed not only miles of
distance, but ages of time away! Had he ever lived there, he hazily
wondered? Would he ever go back? Was he "old David the basket-maker," or
David Helmsley the millionaire? He hardly knew. It did not seem worth
while to consider the problem of his own identity. One figure alone was
real,--one face alone smiled out of the cloudy vista of thoughts and
memories, with the true glory of an ineffable tenderness--the sweet,
pure face of Mary, with her clear and candid eyes lighting every
expression to new loveliness. On Angus Reay his mind did not dwell so
much--Angus was a man--and as a man he regarded him with warm liking and
sympathy--but it was as the future husband and protector of Mary that he
thought of him most--as the one out of all the world who would care for
her, when he, David Helmsley, was no more. Mary was the centre of his
dreams--the pivot round which all his last ambitions in this world were
gathered together in one focus,--without her there was, there could be
nothing for him--nothing to give peace or comfort to his last
days--nothing to satisfy him as to the future of all that his life had
been spent to gain.

Meantime,--while the train bearing him to Exeter was rushing along
through wide and ever-varying stretches of fair landscape,--there was
amazement and consternation in the little cottage he had left behind
him. Mary, rising from a sound night's slee