village? It must have been an express that ran over
the child."

"Now is it likely"--he appealed to the practical world--"is it likely
that the company would run a stopping train and then an express three
minutes after it?"

"A child--" said Rickie. "I can't believe that the train killed a
child." He thought of their journey. They were alone in the carriage.
As the train slackened speed he had caught her for a moment in his arms.
The rain beat on the windows, but they were in heaven.

"You've got to believe it," said the other, and proceeded to "rub it
in." His healthy, irritable face drew close to Rickie's. "Two children
were kicking and screaming on the Roman crossing. Your train, being
late, came down on them. One of them was pulled off the line, but the
other was caught. How will you get out of that?"

"And how will you get out of it?" cried Mrs. Failing, turning the tables
on him. "Where's the child now? What has happened to its soul? You must
know, Agnes, that this young gentleman is a philosopher."

"Oh, drop all that," said Mr. Wonham, suddenly collapsing.

"Drop it? Where? On my nice carpet?"

"I hate philosophy," remarked Agnes, trying to turn the subject, for she
saw that it made Rickie unhappy.

"So do I. But I daren't say so before Stephen. He despises us women."

"No, I don't," said the victim, swaying to and fro on the window-sill,
whither he had retreated.

"Yes, he does. He won't even trouble to answer us. Stephen! Podge!
Answer me. What has happened to the child's soul?"

He flung open the window and leant from them into the dusk. They heard
him mutter something about a bridge.

"What did I tell you? He won't answer my question."

The delightful moment was approaching when the boy would lose his
temper: she knew it by a certain tremor in his heels.

"There wants a bridge," he exploded. "A bridge instead of all this
rotten talk and the level-crossing. It wouldn't break you to build a
two-arch bridge. Then the child's soul, as you call it--well, nothing
would have happened to the child at all."

A gust of night air entered, accompanied by rain. The flowers in the
vases rustled, and the flame of the lamp shot up and smoked the glass.
Slightly irritated, she ordered him to close the window.

XI

Cadover was not a large house. But it is the largest house with which
this story has dealings, and must always be thought of with respect. It
was built about the year 1800, and favoured th