gave it up and let them remain closed. After that she was conscious of
nothing till she heard a shout of "Canley station!" quite near her, and
she jumped up with a start and saw a porter holding the carriage door
open; the light of his lantern shone on the wet pavement, but everywhere
else it was quite dark and raining fast.

"Oh, please," said Biddy, "I'm to get out; and is there anyone here from
Wavebury?"

She had repeated this sentence so often to herself that it came out now
without the least effort.

"All right!" said the porter good-naturedly, "you come alonger me;" and
he helped Biddy out and opened her umbrella for her, and asked if she
had any luggage. Then diving into the van he reappeared with the
precious black box on his shoulder, and led the way along the dripping
platform.

"There's a gen'leman waiting for yer," he said.

Outside the little station there was a flickering gas-lamp, and by its
light Biddy saw a farmer's spring-cart standing in the road with a small
rough pony harnessed to it; in it there sat a young man very much
muffled up in a number of cloaks--he wore a wide-awake pulled well down
over his face, and was smoking a pipe. "Can it be the Reverend Roy?"
thought Biddy.

But she had not time to wonder long, for he turned quickly towards her.

"Are you the little girl for Truslow Manor?" he asked; and then
continued, speaking so rapidly that there was no answer needed:

"All right--here you are--give me your hand. Rather a high step. Take
care. Capital!" as Biddy struggled up with the porter's help, and
arrived, umbrella and all, flat at the driver's feet in the bottom of
the cart.

"Now, then," he went on, having picked her up and placed her on the
narrow seat at his side, "put this on, and this, and this."

He plunged into the back of the cart and produced numerous shawls and
wraps, which he threw upon the breathless Biddy, talking all the while.

"You'll find it fresh up on the downs. Where's your box? In at the
back? All right! Then off we go!"

Biddy was quite confused and "put about" by this impetuous behaviour,
and she had just made up her mind that this was _not_ the Reverend Roy,
when her ideas were upset by the porter, who called out, "Good-night,
Mr Roy!" as they drove away. Parsons in the country were, then,
different from those in London, like everything else. It was surprising
to find them so "short and free in their ways."

To her relief he did not s