om's fists clenched involuntarily.

For hours and hours he wandered, following the windings of the river,
until, as the November sun paled and sank in a bank of grey cloud, he
discovered that he was some six or eight miles from Rudham, and that
his knees were knocking together with mingled emotion and fatigue. A
wayside inn seemed a haven of refuge to him in his exhausted condition.
Through the red blind of the bar a light shone cheerily, and Tom
entered the door without knocking, and, seating himself on the settle
by the fire, ordered sixpennyworth of brandy.

"Hot water or cold? You'll have it hot, if you take my advice," said
the landlady, with a glance at the bloodshot eyes that glared so
strangely out of the deathly white face.

"Neither, thanks," said Tom, tossing off the raw spirit at a gulp.

It tasted to him like so much water; it did not muddle his brain, it
cleared it, it nerved him for that interview with Rose.

"Another sixpennyworth, please," he said, laying down a shilling on the
table.

The landlady paused, and coughed behind her hand; she had sons of her
own.

"I wouldn't if I was you," she said, pushing him back sixpence.
"You've took as much as is good for you, and ne'er a drop of water.

"You can serve me or leave it alone," said Tom, angrily. "I'm ill; I
need it. It tastes like so much water."

The landlady shook her head but gave him the brandy, and Tom, having
swallowed it, bade her a civil good night and went on his way.

The landlady hurried to the door and looked after him; he was walking
very fast but quite straight.

"It may have gone to his head, but it's not got into his legs," she
said, a note of admiration in her voice.

Tom meanwhile hurried on to the station, which he knew to be not more
than half a mile away. He was just in time to catch the one down-train
that ran on Sunday evening, which would land him in Rudham in time for
evening service--not that Tom meant to go to church that night. He
would walk outside and wait for Dixon and for Rose. Many a time the
two men had escorted Rose back to the Court, one on either side. This
would be the last.

CHAPTER XI.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

Rose Lancaster had never looked prettier than that Sunday night, as she
tripped into church, a soft ruffle of fur setting off the delicate fair
face, a large velvet hat resting on the golden hair. Dixon, with a
proud air of possession, walked in behind her, and, seating himself