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LONDON:
T. C. NEWBY, 30, WELBECK STREET,

CAVENDISH SQUARE.

1859.

The right of Translation is reserved.

249. W.95

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CHAPTER XIV.

I am not prone to weeping,
The want of which vain dew
Perchance shall dry your pities. But I have
That honourable grief lodged here, which burns
Worse than tears drown.

Winter's Tale. Give sorrow words--the grief that does not speak Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break.

Macbeth. The breath of Heaven hath blown his spirit out And strew'd repentant ashes on his head.

King John.

It was a chilly rainy evening in the middle of April when the train stopped at the little station of Betchworth. Only a few

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passengers got out; one old woman, with what old women never are without, a large bundle ; one or two farmers, and a gentleman.

“Betchworth! Hawkstead! Northwych!” called out the proprietor of the one omnibus that plied between the aforesaid hamlets—a stranger and a Londoner, who had lately undertaken to convoy passengers to or from the train—“Plenty of room, ladies, now for it, ma’rm --this way, sir,” addressing the gentleman, as he opened the omnibus door.

“ Thank you,” he answered in a haughty tone, “I prefer riding outside.”

“Lor bless you, Sir, but it's a raining.”

“So I perceive,” he replied shortly, as he swung himself to the top of the omnibus.

" Wish I'd always you for a pass'nger, Sir,” said the coachman, giving his hands a rub, expressive of entire satisfaction,“ there's always such a lot of people a quarrelling for the inside seats, · Lor bless you,' says I,

they're just as good outside ;' but they pays for a bit of board above their 'eads and the'll have it too.

And having delivered himself of this profound view of the case, he touched up

his horses with an emphatic “gee !” and away they went.

“Here's Betchworth, Sir," said the driver, after a lengthened pause, “get down here, Sir?

His companion's lips opened to utter a “No," then shut again immediately.

“ Like this part of the country, Sir?” continued the coachman, for he began to be curious as to who his taciturn neighbour was,

for our coachman was a philosophical man, and he had already made with regard to him three observations. First, his coat was of first-rate make; that argued he was a gentleman. Secondly, he wore his coat collar, so as to half conceal his face; that argued a mysterious gentleman. Thirdly, he did not

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