home was awaiting them just five-and-twenty miles down the line.  They had a first-class carriage to themselves—­it is astonishing how easy it is for two people to fit into one of those armchair partitions,—­and they talked all the way down about their plans for the future.  Golden visions of youth, how they can glorify even a suburban villa and four hundred a year!  They exulted together over the endless vista of happy days which stretched before them.

Mrs. Watson, Frank’s trusty housekeeper, had been left in charge of The Lindens, and he had sent her a telegram the evening before to tell her that they were coming.  She had already engaged the two servants, so everything would be ready for them.  They pictured her waiting at the door, the neat little rooms with all their useful marriage-presents in their proper places, the lamplight and the snowy cloth laid for supper in the dining-room.  It would be ten o’clock before they got there, and that supper would be a welcome sight.  It was all delightful to look forward to, and this last journey was the happiest of all their wanderings.  Maude wanted to see her kitchen.  Frank wanted to see his books.  Both were eager for the fight.

But they found a small annoyance waiting for them at Woking.  A crowded train had preceded them, and there was not a single cab left at the station.  Some would be back soon, but nobody could tell when.

‘You don’t mind walking, Maude?’

‘I should prefer it.’

So a friendly porter took charge of their trunks, and promised to send them up when a conveyance had arrived.  In the meantime they started off together down an ill-lit and ill-kept road, which opened into that more important thoroughfare in which their own villa was situated.  They walked quickly, full of eager anticipations.

‘It’s just past the third lamp-post on the right,’ said Frank.  ’Now it’s only the second lamp-post.  You see it will not be far from the station.  Those windows among the trees are where Hale lives—­my best man, you know!  Now it is only one lamp-post!’ They quickened their pace almost to a run, and so arrived at the gate of The Lindens.

It was a white gate leading into a short path—­’carriage sweep’ the house-agent called it,—­and so to a low but comfortable-looking little house.  The night was so dark that one could only see its outline.  To their surprise, there was no sign of a light either above the door or at any of the windows.

‘Well, I’m blessed!’ cried Frank.

‘Never mind, dear.  They live at the back, no doubt.’

‘But I gave them the hour.  This is too bad.  I am so sorry.’

’It will be all the more cosy inside.  What a dear little gate this is!  The whole place is perfectly charming.’