junction they stopped and he got put, and he
felt so dismal and so disinclined to his own
company,that he thought he would walk about, and
go on by another train. He walked about the
place listlessly, scarcely saw anything beyond
the signs and labels of shops, and came back in
time for a later train. The later train took up
people who had come on from the Continent. He
found it full of travellers, with the marks of the
rough usage of the steam-packet upon them,
with more of wrappings and packages than there
was of the traveller, and very different from the
fresh, smooth, well-brushed company who came
in and got out all along the road. These seemed
to be invalids fresh out of an hospital.

In this crowded train Mr. Tillotson had been
"put in" where there were some ordinary
travellers, and where there were two tired ladies,
with wraps and packages and a weary jaded air,
which showed that they also had come from the
sea. One was young, black haired, and bright
eyed. Those eyes were brighter yesterday, and
would be as bright on the morrow; the other
was elderly, cold cheeked, sharp faced, and about
eight-and-thirty. Tomorrow or yesterday would
not make much difference in her looks. Mr.
Tillotson sat opposite the younger black-haired
girl, saw that she was restless and talkative, and
carried a bag carefully on her knee. When she
was not talking, she had her eyes very often
fixed upon him.

They were tired with their voyage, and talked
of its troubles; at least the elder, who was
always tired and worn, seemed to have some
extra lines and shades of fatigue on her face.
She spoke very little; the other, with a curious
eagerness and vivacity. Mr. Tillotson, after a
few moments or so, had dropped them out of his
view, and was soon in as perfect solitude as when
he was alone in the carriage.

The younger girl was always wondering and
supposing whether some event would happen, or
where they were going—a kind of wonder that
was put half in the shape of a question,
and always with an inquiring look at the calm dreamy
unconscious face that was opposite to her.

He was soon awoke into life by a voice
saying, "Perhaps this gentleman would tell us?"
He started. It was only some common question
about the time of arrival. He had a kind of
half sad voice, which had got this key from the
habitual tone of his mind, and the younger girl
listened with deep attention while he told them
the little he knew. He then relapsed. But she
was restless again very soon, and had another
question; and on the question followed a little
narrative of a couple of sentences long. "We
have lived a good deal abroad, and are coming
home now; so we are very ignorant of everything.
It seems much drearier," she went on,
looking out of the window. "There seems no
sun here."

"Why do you return?" he said. "I have
been abroad also, and could fancy being very
happy there. You should have stayed where the
sun is brightest. We should all keep in it while
we can."

The two women were silent for a moment.
The younger sighed; then the other spoke. "We
are obliged, unfortunately, to return. Our
last friend died six months ago at Dieppe."

Then Mr. Tillotson, for the first time, saw that
they were in mourning. He looked on them
both with deep interest and compassion. The
younger girl read these feelings in his face,
which seemed to warm up. "I am very inconsiderate,"
he said. "I did not mean to put such
foolish questions. But the fact is, I live out of
the world as much as if I were in one of the little
French towns."

He was not at all disinclined to talk now, for
he felt drawn towards these two women whose
situation was like his own. There was a frankness
and freedom, almost childish, about the
younger, which was really pleasing, and she told
about their affairs and misfortunes with a
confidence that was often wisdom. The elder was her
half-sister. They were going to stay with an
aunt whom they had not seen for years. There
was a generous sympathy, and an invitation to
confidence, in Mr. Tillotson's manner. Gradually
other passengers dropped out, and the three
were left in the carriage. They fell on their
Dieppe life, and how happy they had been at that
little town, then not spoiled by fashion and
exorbitant prices- it was the bright black-eyed
girl who was narrating their little history- but
she could not get further. Her eyes filled up
suddenly, and, biting her lips, she looked at the
trees and houses flying past the window. They
were stopping. It was another junction, and
she jumped up hastily. "Come," she said to
her sister, "let us get some tea."

Mr. Tillotson, though young enough, had lost
the enthusiasm that would have made him fly
from the carriage and return with a cup in each
hand. He let the two ladies pass from the
carriage, and remained behind, still thinking of many
things. He might have been sitting before a
cold grate, looking hopelessly into the sunk-down
ashes.

When the bell rang, they came back hurriedly.

The tea, as was usual with such tea, was hot
and thin, and unlike known tea. They settled
themselves in their places, and the bright-eyed
girl was about describing pleasantly what had
been given her to drink, when, with the first jerk
of the moving train, she gave a cry, and clasped
her hands. "Ah! The bag!" she cried. "I have
left it in the refreshment room—all our money—
everything!"

She started up and ran to the window. Mr.
Tillotson, suddenly roused from a dream of St.
Alans, was saying calmly that it was sure to be
found, when she called out, "And our mother's
picture, and all her letters! What shall I do?"
He rose hastily from his seat, opened the door
in a second, and, though the train was beginning
to move a little fast, had jumped upon the platform.
But there was an iron pillar, one of a long
series that kept up the roof, and against this he
was swung, and the two sisters, who with clasped
hands had rushed to the open door, saw him
stagger back as if he had been struck by some
terrible blow. That was the last view they had