crumbling sandstone.

At this fresh misfortune, Elma sat down on the footboard with her
face in her hands, and began to sob bitterly. The artist leaned over
her and let her cry for a while in quiet despair. The poor girl's
nerves, it was clear, were now wholly unstrung. She was brave, as
women go, undoubtedly brave; but the shock and the terror of such
a position as this were more than enough to terrify the bravest.
At last Cyril ventured on a single remark.

"How lucky," he said, in an undertone, "I didn't get out at Warnworth
after all. It would have been dreadful if you'd been left all alone
in this position."

Elma glanced up at him with a sudden rush of gratitude. By the dim
light of the oil lamp that still flickered feebly in the carriage
overhead, she could see his face; and she knew by the look in
those truthful eyes that he really meant it. He really meant he
was glad he'd come on and exposed himself to this risk, which he
might otherwise have avoided, because he would be sorry to think a
helpless woman should be left alone by herself in the dark to face
it. And, frightened as she was, she was glad of it too. To be alone
would be awful. This was pre-eminently one of those many positions
in life in which a woman prefers to have a man beside her.

And yet most men, she knew, would have thought to themselves at
once, "What a fool I was to come on beyond my proper station, and
let myself in for this beastly scrape, just because I'd go a few
miles further with a pretty girl I never saw in my life before,
and will probably never see in my life again, if I once get well