Seeing that the station-master was disengaged, she approached the spectacled, dapper little man and told him of her wants.

“Would it be for long?” he asked.

“Possibly for years.  I’m coming to work here.”

“Work!”

“In the office of one of Mr Devitt’s companies.”

The man assumed an air of some deference.

“Mr Devitt!  Our leading inhabitant—­sings baritone,” remarked the station-master.

“Indeed!”

“A fair voice, but a little undisciplined in the lower register.  This is quite between ourselves.”

“Of course.  Do you think you can help me to find rooms?”

“I wish I could.  Let me think.”

Mr Medlicott, as he was called, put the tips of his fingers together, while he reflected.  Mavis watched his face for something in the nature of encouragement.

“Dear! dear! dear! dear!” he complained.

“Don’t bother.  It’s good of you to think of it at all,” said Mavis.

“Stay!  I have it.  Why didn’t I think of it before?  Mrs Farthing:  the very thing.”

“Where does she live?”

“The Pennington side of Melkbridge—­over a mile from here; but I know you’d find there everything that you desire.”

“Thanks.  I’ll leave my boxes here and walk there.”

“I can save you the trouble.  Her husband is guard on the 4.52.  If you can fill up the time till then, it will save you walking all that way, perhaps, for no purpose.”

Mavis thanked the station-master, left her luggage in his care and walked to the town, where the unmistakable London cut of her well-worn clothes attracted the attention of the female portion of the population.  She had a cup of tea in a confectioner’s, and felt better for it.  She then set out to walk to her old favourite nook on the banks of the river, a spot rich with associations of her childhood.  Her nearest way was to walk across the churchyard to the meadows, the third of which bordered the Avon.  It only needed a quarter of an hour’s walk along its banks to find the place she wanted.  Unconsciously, her steps led her in a contrary direction from that in which she had purposed going.  Almost before she knew what she had done, she had taken the road to Haycock Abbey, which was Windebank’s Wiltshire home.  It required something of an effort to enable her to retrace her steps.  She reached and crossed the churchyard, where long forgotten memories crowded upon her; it was with heavy heart that she struck across the meadows.

When she reached the Avon, she found the river to be swollen with the winter’s rain.  The water, seamed with dark streaks, flowed turbulently, menacingly, past her feet.  She walked along the river’s deserted bank to the place that she had learned to look upon as her own.  Its discovery gave her much of a shock.  She had always pictured it in her mind as when she had last seen it.  Then, it had been in early July.  The river had lazily flowed past banks gaily decorated with timid forget-me-nots and purple veitch; the ragged robin had looked roguishly from the hedge.  Such was the heat, that the trees of her nook had looked longingly towards the cool of the water, while the scent of lately mown hay seemed to pervade the world.  That was then.