e the rather
gloomy aspect of the place oppressed her as much as the garish bustle of
Charing Cross had bewildered her,--but she was somewhat relieved when
she learned that a train for Hull would start in ten minutes. Hurrying
to the ticket-office she found there before her a kindly faced woman
with a baby in her arms, who was just taking a third-class ticket to
Hull, and as she felt lonely and timid, Thelma at once decided to travel
third-class also, and if possible in the same compartment with this
cheerful matron, who, as soon as she had secured her ticket, walked away
to the train, hushing her infant in her arms as she went. Thelma
followed her at a little distance--and as soon as she saw her enter a
third-class carriage, she hastened her steps and entered also, quite
thankful to have secured some companionship for the long cold journey.
The woman glanced at her a little curiously--it was strange to see so
lovely and young a creature travelling all alone at night,--and she
asked kindly--

"Be you goin' fur, miss?"

Thelma smiled--it was pleasant to be spoken to, she thought.

"Yes," she answered. "All the way to Hull."

"'Tis a cold night for a journey," continued her companion.

"Yes, indeed," answered Thelma. "It must be cold for your little baby."

And unconsciously her voice softened and her eyes grew sad as she looked
across at the sleeping infant.

"Oh, he's as warm as toast!" laughed the mother cheerily. "He gets the
best of everything, he do. It's yourself that's looking cold, my dear in
spite of your warm cloak. Will ye have this shawl?"

And she offered Thelma a homely gray woollen wrap with much kindly
earnestness of manner.

"I am quite warm, thank you," said Thelma gently, accepting the shawl,
however, to please her fellow-traveller. "It is a headache I have which
makes me look pale. And, I am very, very tired!"

Her voice trembled a little,--she sighed and closed her eyes. She felt
strangely weak and giddy,--she seemed to be slipping away from herself
and from all the comprehension of life,--she wondered vaguely who and
what she was. Had her marriage with Philip been all a dream?--perhaps
she had never left the Altenfjord after all! Perhaps she would wake up
presently and see the old farm-house quite unchanged, with the doves
flying about the roof, and Sigurd wandering under the pines as was his
custom. Ah, dear Sigurd! Poor Sigurd! he had loved her, she
thought--nay, he loved her still,--h