A faithful friend to the last, Austin Ambrose got them a carriage, and tipped the guard.
"Good-bye," he said, standing on the step and waving his hand; "good-bye, and Heaven bless you!" and there seemed to be something really like tears in his voice.
And, indeed, he was paler than usual as he walked up and down the platform, waiting for the train to London.
Sometimes our very success frightens us.
The train reached Waterloo pretty punctually, and Mr. Austin Ambrose sprung out and got into a cab.
"Drive to No. 9, Anglesea Terrace," he said.
[CHAPTER XV.]
It was a week after Margaret's wedding in the moldy and dilapidated old church at Sefton, and she and Lord Blair—she and her husband!—were sitting on the cliff at Appleford looking out upon the sea, which lay at their feet like a level opal glistening in the rays of the morning sun.