As for the curate, when she should have told him who the new squire really was, it was unlikely that Mr. Campbell would feel disposed to make a clerical call at the manor house.
Under the divine Providence she would leave everything to her father.
While the father and daughter were still chatting pleasantly together a door was flung open and a voice was heard announcing:
“Train for Chuxton.”
“Come, my child,” said Mr. Campbell, rising with the baby on his arms and crossing the room, followed by Jennie.
They went out to the train and entered the second-class carriage.
In five minutes, after they were comfortably seated, the train was off, speeding away from the old cathedral city in a northerly direction across the moors.
The sun had not yet set, though it was on the edge of the horizon. Jennie fixed her eyes on the vastness of the brown moor that stretched, or rather rolled, away in all directions to meet the horizon. It reminded her of the sea. It seemed a boundless ocean, enchanted into stillness; for not a breath of air disturbed the motionless heather, and not a hamlet or a farmhouse broke the illusion. No doubt there were farms and villages not far off, but they were in the hollows, out of sight.
Presently Jennie turned from the window to look at her baby. The little one was fast asleep again; so was the curate, who had been traveling all night and all day, for twenty-four hours. He had his arms so securely wound around the sleeping child that Jennie forbore to take it away, lest she should disturb their rest.
The sun set; twilight faded; yet the train sped on over the moor.