Gladys sat with her back to the old horse, quite silent, never allowing
her eyes for a moment to wander from that picture until distance made it
dim. She had no tears, though she was leaving behind all that love had
hallowed. She wondered vaguely once or twice whether it would be her
last farewell, or whether, in other and happier years, she might come
again to kneel by that nameless grave. Abel Graham paid small attention
to her. He tried to engage in a conversation with the peasant who sat on
the front of the waggon, holding the reins loosely in his sunburnt
hands; but that individual was stolid, and when he did vouchsafe a
remark, Abel did not understand him, not being familiar with fen
vernacular. They reached Boston in ample time for the train, even
leaving half an hour to spare. This half hour the old man improved by
hunting up the dealer in whose hands were two of his brother's pictures,
leaving Gladys at the station to watch their meagre luggage. He drove a
much better bargain than the artist himself could have done, and
returned to the station inwardly elated, with four pounds in his pocket;
but he carefully concealed from his niece the success of his
transaction--not that it would have greatly concerned her, she was too
listless to take interest in anything. At one o'clock the dreary railway
journey began, and after many stoppages and changes, late at night
Gladys was informed that their destination was reached. She stepped from
the carriage in a half-dazed manner, and perceived that they were in a
large, brilliantly-lighted, but deserted, city station. All her worldly
goods were in one large, shabby portmanteau, which the old man weighed,
first in one hand and then in the other.

'I think we can manage it between us. It isn't far, and if I leave it,
it will cost tuppence, besides taking Wat Hepburn from his work
to-morrow to fetch it.'