In less than an hour, Aldyth was on her way to Woodham. It was a hot journey, and the heat of the day was at its height as she came into the well-known little station. Who was that standing on the platform? Her heart beat more quickly as she saw John Glynne. He came forward to help her from the carriage.
"How are you, Miss Lorraine?" he said, and there seemed such kindness in his warm, firm hand-clasp. "Your aunt has allowed me to have the pleasure of meeting you, as your cousin could not be spared. The carriage is waiting to take you to Wyndham. Have you any luggage?"
"Only a small portmanteau," said Aldyth. "How is my uncle? The telegram, of course, gave no particulars."
"He is very ill, I grieve to tell you," said John Glynne. "He was seized with apoplexy when he was dressing this morning. Of course at his age there can, I fear, be little hope for his recovery."
"I suppose not," said Aldyth, tremulously. "I thought him altered the last time I saw him."
"And when was that?" asked Mr. Glynne.
"Oh, some months back, when he came to London," said Aldyth, off her guard.
But seeing he looked surprised, she recollected herself, and said, hastily: "But I should not have mentioned it. I forgot that uncle begged me to tell no one that he had been to London. It was such an event in his life to leave home for a day that he seemed ashamed that any one should know of it. It was only by chance it came to my knowledge."
"Really!" said John, smiling. "Well, the secret is safe with me."
He secured her portmanteau, accompanied her to the chaise, and saw her seated beside old John. Then they shook hands once more.