CHAPTER XIII.

SOUTHWARD.


After a late, cold, and gloomy spring, a glimpse of early summer shone
over the land; and after a long period of anxious and oftentimes
irritating and disappointing travail--in wet and dismal towns, in
comfortless inns, with associates not always to his liking--George Brand
was hurrying to the South. Ah, the thought of it, as the train whirled
along on this sunlit morning! After the darkness, the light; after
fighting, peace; after the task-work, a smile of reward! No more than
that was his hope; but it was a hope that kept his heart afire and glad
on many a lonely night.

At length his companion, who had slept steadily on ever since they had
entered the train at Carlisle, at about one in the morning, awoke,
rubbed his eyes, and glanced at the window.

"We are going to have a fine day at last, Humphreys," said Brand.

"They have been having better weather in the South, sir."

The man looked like a well-dressed mechanic. He had an intelligent face,
keen and hard. He spoke with the Newcastle burr.

"I wish you would not call me 'sir,'" Brand said, impatiently.

"It comes natural, somehow, sir," said the other, with great simplicity.
"There is not a man in any part of the country, but would say 'sir' to