On the following morning, therefore, Bram took train northwards, and, reaching before noon the pretty country town, went straight from the station to the big, square, open market-place, which, with the little irregular old-fashioned dwellings which surrounded it, might be called, not only the heart, but the whole of the town.
It was market-day, and at the primitive stalls which were ranged in neat rows, stood the farmers’ wives and daughters before their tempting wares.
It was a cold but not unpleasant day, and the sight was a pretty one. But Bram had no eyes, no heart for any sight but one. He went to the principal inn, ordered some bread and cheese, and asked if there were any persons living in the town bearing the name of Cornthwaite; this he knew to have been the maiden name of Claire’s mother.
The innkeeper knew of none. There had been a family of that name living at a big house outside the town; but that was years before.
Still Bram did not give up hope. It was something stronger than instinct which told him that to this, the spot where her mother’s childhood had been passed, Claire would make her way. Disappointed in his inquiries, Bram set about what was almost a house-to-house search.
And towards the evening, when the lights began to appear in the houses, he was successful. He was searching the cottages on the outskirts of the town, and in one of them, crouching before the fire in a tiny room, where geraniums in pots formed a screen before the window, he saw Claire.
He stared at her for some seconds, until the tears welled up into his eyes.
Then he tapped at the window-pane, and she started up with a low cry.