'Oh, not long,--in this village, I mean,--only since summer. We have
been all over the fens, I think; but we have liked this place most of
all.'

'Heathens, wandering Jews, vagabonds on the face of the earth,' said the
old man to himself. 'So you have arranged that it will be to-morrow--you
and the parson? I hope he understands that he can get nothing for his
pains?'

'I don't know what you are talking about,' said Gladys, and her mouth
grew very stern--her whole face during the last hour seemed to have
taken on the stamp and seal of age.

'And what hour have you arranged it for?'

'Eleven, I think--yes, eleven,' answered Gladys, and gave a quick,
sobbing breath, which the old man elected not to notice.

'Eleven?' He said it over slowly, and took a penny time-table from his
pocket, and studied it thoughtfully. 'We can get away from Boston at
one. It's the worst kind of place this to get at, and I don't know why
on earth your father should have chosen it'--'to die in,' he had almost
added; but he restrained these words. 'We can't get to Glasgow before
midnight, I think. I hope you won't object to travelling in the
night-time? I must do it. I can't be away any longer from business; it
must be attended to. I hope you can be ready?'

'I don't mind it at all,' answered Gladys in a still, quiet voice. Her
heart cried out against her unhappy destiny; but one so desolate, so