Two or three persons had entered the station, probably to wait for the
next train.

"No one who will molest you."

But she was not content till we had withdrawn to where the time-table
hung up on the opposite wall. Turning about as if to consult it, she
told the following story. I never see a time-table now but I think of
her expression as she stood there looking up as if her mind were fixed
on what she probably did not see at all.

"Last Wednesday--no, it was on the Wednesday preceding--I was taking a
ride with Gwendolen on one of the side roads branching off toward
Fordham. We were in her own little pony cart, and as we seldom rode
together like this, she had been chattering about a hundred things till
her eyes danced in her head and she looked as lovely as I had ever seen
her. But suddenly, just as we were about to cross a small wooden bridge,
I saw her turn pale and her whole sensitive form quiver. 'Some one I
don't like,' she cried. 'There is some one about whom I don't like.
Drive on, Ellie, drive on.' But before I could gather up the reins a
figure which I had not noticed before stepped from behind a tree at the
farther end of the bridge, and advancing into the middle of the road
with arms thrown out, stopped our advance. I have told you how he
looked, but I can give you no idea of the passionate fury lighting up
his eyes, or the fiery dignity with which he held his place and kept us
subdued to his will till he had looked the shrinking child all over, and
laughed, not as a madman laughs, oh, much too slow and ironically for
that! but like one who takes an unholy pleasure in mocking the happy
present with evil prophecy. Nothing that I can say will make you see him
as I saw him in that one instant, and though there was much in the
circumstance to cause fear, I think it was more awe than fright we felt,
so commanding was his whole appearance and so forcible the assurance
with which he held us there till he was ready to move. Gwendolen cried
out, but the imploring sound had no effect upon him; it only reawakened
his mirth and led him to say, in a clear, cold, mocking tone which I
hear yet, 'Cry out, little one, for your short day is nearly over. Silks
and feathers and carriages and servants will soon be a half-forgotten
memory to you; and right it is that it should be so. Ten days, little
one, only ten days more.' And with that he moved, and, slipping aside
behind the tree, allowed us to drive on. Mr. Trevitt, ye