his miserable condition, and only thought of
the one aim.

Again more lights were flitting by. They
were coming to the junction. The junction
was very dark, for they only lit up for their
regular visitors. Here upon another lonely
platform—a station that was in its nightcap and
drowsy—Mr. Tillotson stepped out into
chill air; and the tired horse that had
brought him, at last went off gaily to his stable
—his night's work done.

For about a quarter of an hour Mr.
Tillotson paced that lonely platform. He thought
that the miserable express would never come
up. Here, too, the sore winds were raging, and
stabbing him pitilessly in his chest, in his
back, through and through, on all sides, so
cruelly, that it occurred to him for the first
time that it was folly not to have brought
some wraps. But the next moment he was
smiling at himself for thinking of such things;
and, indeed, he was disturbed by a faint shriek
in the distance. The express was come at
last.

Now a porter or two, who had been asleep
on a bench by the fire, came angrily out,
rubbing their eyes. They resented this disturbance.
Up it came—a mass of pale sickly light and
blue chambers, with not half a dozen passengers,
and a general air of a dream. It seemed
to bring drowsiness in with it, as it glided up
by the platform. Mr. Tillotson was put into
one of the blue chambers—he could have had
his choice of half a dozen lonely ones—and they
went on again straight into the night

It was a long, long journey. He never slept,
for his eyes were visited with a strange and
watchful wakefulness. The night seemed to
have no end; and the darkness, and the
ceaseless burr, and the sharp rattle of musketry
as they swept through an open station, and
the stray and flashing lights, no end. When
he looked back later to that night, he turned
his eyes away; for it seemed to him the longest
and weariest he had ever known in his long and
weary life, and he had lain awake many, many
nights. But here at last was a cold and ragged
blue streak—a jagged rent far away; and
already the sickly lamp was burning pale.

It ended at last. In the steady cold of morning,
the train rolled into the station far down
to the south-west, where the seaport was.
Another great pale clock-face, held out from
the wall, showed that the hour was four. Into
that cold morning light came the figure of Mr.
Tillotson; but a figure so shrunk and wasted
and aged by that night's work, that a bright
porter, fresh from his good night's rest,
pointed him out with pity to a friend of the
same cloth. But they did not notice how
brightly his eyes were burning, for he felt now
that he had got so far over the difficulties of his
pursuit, and might yet be in time to save
her. That was the cry always sounding in his
ears, with the hoarse monotonous jangling of a
fog-bell. "Save her!" The porter who had
noticed him was eagerly offering his services,
though a little damped by hearing that there
was "no luggage."

Now the sun had begun to shine, and Mr.
Tillotson stood there at the door of the station,
unconsciously shivering, and mechanically thinking
where he should go to, or what he should
do. Alas! the great seaport was a huge place,
with docks which seemed overgrown with
forests of shipping. Where should he begin?
The prospect was one of despair. The porter
came to him again. Was he expectin' any one?
Did he wish for a cab? Could he do anything?
Mr. Tillotson saw that he was intelligent; and
recollecting what good service the other porter
had done for him, told him his difficulties. The
porter was very intelligent, and grasped the
whole in a moment.

"Exactly, sir," said he. "Know the very
party. Lady came in last night by the half-
past eleven train. Yeller hair, and a gent with
her. Couldn't see his face; he kept back so."

"The very pair," said Mr. Tillotson, eagerly;
and yet he was feeling the gripe closing upon
his heart again. "Find them for me—make
them out—lose not a moment, for they may be
gone even now—and you shall be taken care of.
Where did they go to?"

"All, bless you, sir," said the other, "there's
the point. Where did the cab go to? You
see, in this place, we don't take down the
numbers as they do up yonder. We'd never find
that cab. Maybe he's down now at the docks,
or up at the Factories. I tell you what, though,
sir. If I might make so bold, you should go
straight to a hotel—the Royal Albion—and lie
down and take your sleep, for you don't look
well, and leave the rest to me. I'll go round
all the 'o-tels, and find 'em out——"

"But they will be gone," said he, distractedly,
"there is a vessel to sail; what time does
she go? They will be gone if we are not quick."

"Lord bless you, there are wessels going
from this place every harf-hour."

"But this one is bound for Australia," said
Mr. Tillotson, eagerly.

"Ah, that's better," said the other. "But,
bless you, they're going too. You can't count
'em. Now take my advice, sir, and make for
the Albion, and I'll hunt them up, it they're in
the town."

It did indeed seem the best advice. Tillotson's
head was swimming, and he had a deep, thick
oppression on his chest, which almost prevented
his speaking. The "gashes" left by the cruel
winds which had been stabbing him all the way so
mercilessly, were still raw. Yet, thank Heaven,
here was the smiling day at last, and that long
night, with the sickly lamp and the blue
cushions which seemed like a week of long,
long nights, was now far behind.

He took the advice offered to him, and went
straight to the Royal Albion. They almost
hesitated about taking in the wan, worn gentleman,
man, who seemed to have almost death in his
face, and who came without luggage—which
was a more serious consideration. But the
landlady, who came out after the landlord, was