satchel that held all her worldly possessions—­the other hanging limply at her side.  Now and then she looked at her companions—­the husband and wife sat opposite each other and spoke occasionally in monosyllables—­the old gentleman on the seat facing herself was reading a paper which showed its title—­“The Morning Post.”  Sometimes he looked at her over the top of the paper, but for the most part he appeared absorbed in the printed page.  On, on, on, the train rushed at a pace which to her seemed maddening and full of danger—­she felt sick and giddy—­would it never stop, she thought?—­and a deep sense of relief came over her when, with a scream from the engine-whistle loud enough to tear the drum of a sensitive ear, the whole shaking, rattling concern came to an abrupt standstill at a station.  Then she mustered up courage to speak.

“Please, would you tell me—­” she began, faintly.

The old gentleman laid down his “Morning Post” and surveyed her encouragingly.

“Yes?  What is it?”

“Will it be long before we get to London?”

“About three hours.”

“Three hours!”

She gave a deep and weary sigh.  Three hours!  Hardly till then had she realised how far she was from Briar Farm—­or how entirely she had cut herself off from all the familiar surroundings of her childhood’s home, her girlhood’s life.  She leaned back in her seat, and one or two tears escaped from under her drooping eyelids and trickled slowly down her cheeks.  The train started off again, rushing at what she thought an awful speed,—­she imagined herself as being torn away from the peaceful past and hurled into a stormy future.  Yet it was her own doing—­whatever chanced to her now she would have no one but herself to blame.  The events of the past few days had crushed and beaten her so with blows,—­the old adage “Misfortunes never come singly” had been fulfilled for her with cruel and unlooked-for plenitude.  There is a turning-point in every human life—­or rather several turning-points—­and at each one are gathered certain threads of destiny which may either be involved in a tangle or woven distinctly as a clue—­but which in any case lead to change in the formerly accepted order of things.  We may thank the gods that this is so—­otherwise in the jog-trot of a carefully treasured conservatism and sameness of daily existence we should become the easy prey of adventurers, who, discovering our desire for the changelessness of a convenient and comfortable routine, would mulct us of all individuality.  Our very servants would become our masters, and would take advantage of our easy-going ways to domineer over us, as in the case of “lone ladies” who are often half afraid to claim obedience from the domestics they keep and pay.  Ignorant of the ways of the world and full of such dreams as the world considers madness, Innocent had acted on a powerful inward impetus which pushed her spirit towards liberty and independence—­but of any difficulties or dangers she might have to encounter she never thought.  She had the blind confidence of a child that runs along heedless of falling, being instinctively sure that some hand will be stretched out to save it should it run into positive danger.