in the south-east, a dark ruffled patch appeared on the horizon, and we agreed that it was time to go.  The indistinguishable continuous growl now became articulated into distinct crashes.  I had miscalculated the distance to the station, and before we got there the rain, skirmishing in advance, was upon us.  We took shelter in a cottage for a moment in order that Ellen might get a glass of water—­bad-looking stuff it was, but she was very thirsty—­and put on her cloak.  We then started again on our way.  We reached the station at about half-past six, before the thunder was overhead, but not before Ellen had got wet, despite all my efforts to protect her.  She was also very hot from hurrying, and yet there was nothing to be done but to sit in a kind of covered shed till the train came up.  The thunder and lightning were, however, so tremendous, that we thought of nothing else.  When they were at their worst, the lightning looked like the upset of a cauldron of white glowing metal—­with such strength, breadth, and volume did it descend.  Just as the train arrived, the roar began to abate, and in about half-an-hour it had passed over to the north, leaving behind the rain, cold and continuous, which fell all round us from a dark, heavy, grey sky.  The carnage in which we were was a third-class, with seats arranged parallel to the sides.  It was crowded, and we were obliged to sit in the middle, exposed to the draught which the tobacco smoke made necessary.  Some of the company were noisy, and before we got to Red Hill became noisier, as the brandy-flasks which had been well filled at Hastings began to work.  Many were drenched, and this was an excuse for much of the drinking; although for that matter, any excuse or none is generally sufficient.  At Red Hill we were stopped by other trains, and before we came to Croydon we were an hour late.  We had now become intolerably weary.  The songs were disgusting, and some of the women who were with the men had also been drinking, and behaved in a manner which it was not pleasant that Ellen and Marie should see.  The carriage was lighted fortunately by one dim lamp only which hung in the middle, and I succeeded at last in getting seats at the further end, where there was a knot of more decent persons who had huddled up there away from the others.  All the glory of the morning was forgotten.  Instead of three happy, exalted creatures, we were three dejected, shivering mortals, half poisoned with foul air and the smell of spirits.  We crawled up to London Bridge at the slowest pace, and, finally, the railway company discharged us on the platform at ten minutes past eleven.  Not a place in any omnibus could be secured, and we therefore walked for a mile or so till I saw a cab, which—­unheard-of expense for me—­I engaged, and we were landed at our own house exactly at half-past twelve.  The first thing to be done was to get Marie to bed.  She was instantly asleep, and was none the worse for her journey.  With Ellen the case was different.  She could not sleep, and the next morning was feverish.  She insisted that it was nothing more than a bad cold, and would on no account permit me even to give her any medicine.  She would get up presently, and she and Marie could get on well enough together.  But when I reached home on Monday evening, Ellen was worse, and was still in bed.