Alden Lytton got out and went into the waiting-room, when the first form his eye fell upon was that of Mary Grey.
She looked pale, weary and harassed, as she sat alone on one of the benches, with a small carpet-bag at her feet.
Now Alden Lytton's heart was so full of happiness that it expanded with affection for the whole human race, and even warmed with sympathy for this erring woman, who had once possessed and forfeited his faithful boyish love.
And now, in his compassion, he went to her and, smiling very kindly, he said:
"Why, Mrs. Grey! I am so surprised to see you here, and alone too!" he added.
"When, since I left Blue Cliff Hall, have you ever seen me when I have not been alone?" she inquired, with a sad smile.
"True," he answered, gently. "Even in a church, or a crowded parlor, you have still been ever alone. But why should this be so, while you have so many faithful friends? Miss Cavendish I know is—"
She put up her hand to stop him. She turned paler than before, and trembled as with a chill. For she had loved this man only, of all that she had fascinated and fooled; she had loved him utterly; and even now, when she bitterly hated him, she could not bear to hear her rival's name from his lips.
"'The heart knoweth its own bitterness,'" she murmured, in faltering tones. "Let us talk of something else. I came down here to bring some funds that I had collected from charitable friends for a poor family who were burned out near this village. And now I am going back by this train. Pray pardon my nervousness! But the crowd and bustle and excitement of a railway station always does make me very nervous."
"You need refreshment. Come to the table with me and have something. There is yet plenty of time," he said, kindly, offering her his arm.