rstand?"--this last a little
sharply, as if afraid that the word might be challenged.

Still looking upon the flying track, Alec nodded to show that he
challenged nothing.

"And she wishes it to be said," continued the stiff, formal Scot (there
was a consequential air about him now that was almost insufferable),
"that for all I've the intention in my mind to spend my life in the old
place, she thinks she'll very likely break me of it, and bring me to
live in more frequented parts in a year or two, when she'll hope to come
and see her friends again. 'Tis what she says, Mr. Trenholme" (and Alec
knew, from his tone, that Bates, even in speaking to him, had smiled
again that gloriously happy smile), "and of course I humour her by
giving her words. As to how that will be, I can't say, but"--with
condescension--"ye'd be surprised, Mr. Trenholme, at the hold a woman
can get on a man."

"Really--yes, I suppose so," Alec muttered inanely; but within he laid
control on himself, lest he should kick this man. Surely it would only
make the scales of fortune balance if Bates should have a few of his
limbs broken to pay for his luxury!

Alec turned, throwing a trifle of patronage into his farewell. Nature
had turned him out such a good-looking fellow that he might have spared
the other, but he was not conscious of his good looks just then.

"Well, Bates, upon my word I wish you joy. It's certainly a relief to
_me_ to think you will have someone to look after that cough of
yours, and see after you a bit when you have the asthma. I didn't think
you'd get through this winter alone, 'pon my word, I didn't; but I hope
that--Mrs. Bates will take good care of you."

It was only less brutal to hurl the man's weakness at him than it would
have been to hurl him off the train. Yet Alec did it, then jumped from
the car when the speed lessened.

He found himself left at a junction which had no interest for him, and
as there was a goods train going further on to that village where he had
stopped with Bates on their first arrival in these parts, he followed a
whim and went thither, in order to walk home by the road on which he had
first heard Sophia's voice in the darkness.

Ah, that voice--how clear and sweet and ringing it was! It was not
words, but tones, of which he was now cherishing remembrance. And he
thought of the face he now knew so well, hugged the thought of her to
his heart, and knew that he ought not to think of her.

Everyw