He reached the spot where the iron course of the railroad strikes its way through arches in the old wall.  He paused at this place—­where the central activity of a great railway enterprise beats, with all the pulses of its loud-clanging life, side by side with the dead majesty of the past, deep under the old historic stones which tell of fortified York and the sieges of two centuries since—­he stood on this spot, and searched for her again, and searched in vain.  Others were looking idly down at the desolate activity on the wilderness of the iron rails; but she was not among them.  The captain glanced doubtfully at the darkening sky, and walked on.

He stopped again where the postern of Micklegate still stands, and still strengthens the city wall as of old.  Here the paved walk descends a few steps, passes through the dark stone guardroom of the ancient gate, ascends again, and continues its course southward until the walls reach the river once more.  He paused, and peered anxiously into the dim inner corners of the old guard-room.  Was she waiting there for the darkness to come, and hide her from prying eyes?  No:  a solitary workman loitered through the stone chamber; but no other living creature stirred in the place.  The captain mounted the steps which led out from the postern and walked on.

He advanced some fifty or sixty yards along the paved footway; the outlying suburbs of York on one side of him, a rope-walk and some patches of kitchen garden occupying a vacant strip of ground on the other.  He advanced with eager eyes and quickened step; for he saw before him the lonely figure of a woman, standing by the parapet of the wall, with her face set toward the westward view.  He approached cautiously, to make sure of her before she turned and observed him.  There was no mistaking that tall, dark figure, as it rested against the parapet with a listless grace.  There she stood, in her long black cloak and gown, the last dim light of evening falling tenderly on her pale, resolute young face.  There she stood—­not three months since the spoiled darling of her parents; the priceless treasure of the household, never left unprotected, never trusted alone—­there she stood in the lovely dawn of her womanhood, a castaway in a strange city, wrecked on the world!

Vagabond as he was, the first sight of her staggered even the dauntless assurance of Captain Wragge.  As she slowly turned her face and looked at him, he raised his hat, with the nearest approach to respect which a long life of unblushing audacity had left him capable of making.

“I think I have the honor of addressing the younger Miss Vanstone?” he began.  “Deeply gratified, I am sure—­for more reasons than one.”

She looked at him with a cold surprise.  No recollection of the day when he had followed her sister and herself on their way home with Miss Garth rose in her memory, while he now confronted her, with his altered manner and his altered dress.