"Are either of these ladies Mrs. Vavasour?"
"Yes! I!—I!—is he alive?" gasps Lucia.
"Alive, and better! and expecting you—"
"Better?—expecting me?" almost shrieks she, as Valencia and Mary (for it is she) help her to the carriage. Mary puts them in, and turns away.
"Are you not coming too?" asks Valencia, who is puzzled.
"No, thank you, madam; I am going to take a walk. John, you know where to drive these ladies."
Little Mary does not think it necessary to say that she, with her father's carriage, has been down to two other afternoon trains, upon the chance of finding them.
But why is not Frank Headley with them, when he is needed most? And why are Valencia's eyes more red with weeping than even her sister's sorrow need have made them?
Because Frank Headley is rolling away in a French railway, on his road to Marseilles, and to what Heaven shall find for him to do.
Yes, he is gone Eastward Ho among the many; will he come Westward Ho again, among the few?