arted, or not to have returned without being married. I don't
like to say it, Elfride--indeed I don't; but you must be told this, that
going back unmarried may compromise your good name in the eyes of people
who may hear of it.'

'They will not; and I must go.'

'O Elfride! I am to blame for bringing you away.'

'Not at all. I am the elder.'

'By a month; and what's that? But never mind that now.' He looked
around. 'Is there a train for Plymouth to-night?' he inquired of a
guard. The guard passed on and did not speak.

'Is there a train for Plymouth to-night?' said Elfride to another.

'Yes, miss; the 8.10--leaves in ten minutes. You have come to the wrong
platform; it is the other side. Change at Bristol into the night mail.
Down that staircase, and under the line.'

They ran down the staircase--Elfride first--to the booking-office, and
into a carriage with an official standing beside the door. 'Show your
tickets, please.' They are locked in--men about the platform accelerate
their velocities till they fly up and down like shuttles in a loom--a
whistle--the waving of a flag--a human cry--a steam groan--and away they
go to Plymouth again, just catching these words as they glide off:

'Those two youngsters had a near run for it, and no mistake!'

Elfride found her breath.

'And have you come too, Stephen? Why did you?'

'I shall not leave you till I see you safe at St. Launce's. Do not think
worse of me than I am, Elfride.'

And then they rattled along through the night, back again by the way
they had come. The weather cleared, and the stars shone in upon them.
Their two or three fellow-passengers sat for most of the time with
closed eyes. Stephen sometimes slept; Elfride alone was wakeful and
palpitating hour after hour.

The day began to break, and revealed that they were by the sea. Red
rocks overhung them, and, receding into distance, grew livid in the blue
grey atmosphere. The sun rose, and sent penetrating shafts of light in
upon their weary faces. Another hour, and the world began to be busy.
They waited yet a little, and the train slackened its speed in view of
the platform at St. Launce's.

She shivered, and mused sadly.

'I did not see all the consequences,' she said. 'Appearances are wofully
against me. If anybody finds me out, I am, I suppose, disgraced.'

'Then appearances will speak falsely; and how can that matter, even if
they do? I shall be your husband sooner or later, for certain, an