nd the train resumed its
journey. It was now one chance in a thousand that the General would not
be too late. If that chance came, if he saw Langrishe he would take it
as a sign that God approved his first intention. If the _Sutlej_ had
sailed--well, that, too, was the leading and the light.

As they ran into Tilbury Station a train was standing at the departure
platform. The General beckoned to a porter.

"Do you know if the _Sutlej_ has sailed?"

"Yes, sir--sailed at ten minutes to twelve. Might catch her at
Southampton, sir, perhaps. There's a good many people as well as you
disappointed in this 'ere train. There's another train back in three
minutes."

"When is the next train?"

"Three hours' time."

The General went to the door of the carriage and looked out; then
retired hastily. He had caught sight of Grogan and Mrs. Grogan and a
number of boys and girls of all ages. Not for worlds would he have let
Grogan see him. The amazement at seeing him, the questions about his
presence there, Grogan's laugh, Grogan's slap on the back, would be more
than the General could bear at this moment.

"I shall wait for the next train," he said to the astonished porter. The
porter had not thought of Tilbury as a place where the casual visitor
desired to wait for three hours.

The General remained in the train till the other had steamed out of the
station. When all danger was over he alighted and walked to the hotel of
many partings. He ordered his lunch, a chop and a vegetable, biscuits
and cheese. While his chop was cooking he would stretch his legs,
cramped by that long time in the train.

He walked along the docks, dodging lorries and waggons, getting out at
the side of a basin, with a clear walk along its edge. It was empty--the
_Sutlej_ had left it only three-quarters of an hour ago. He paced up and
down by the grey water, lost in thought.

The _Sutlej_ had sailed, ten minutes before the time anticipated. God
had given him the sign. He had turned him from his presumptuous attempt
to be Providence to his Nelly. The General never had been, never could
be, passive. He was made for the activities of life. Yet his religious
ideal was passivity--to be in the hands of God expecting, accepting, His
Will for all things. It was an ideal he had never attained to, and it
was, perhaps, therefore the dearer.

He was oblivious of the cold, of the creeping water, of the thickening
flakes in the air which nearly blotted out the si