"I cannot congratulate you enough, dear friend," he said in a voice which trembled with emotion. "Of all men, you deserve it. I cannot say how happy this makes me, my friend, my brother—for it is as brothers that you and I have lived this long while. I always knew your chance would come. In the long run it always comes to those who are worthy of it. To some it comes early, to others late, but it always comes."
"It means everything to me, Joseph," Hampson answered. "And think what it will mean to you also! When you return cured and robust from Wales I shall be able to give you regular employment. You will be able to write any amount of articles for me. It means safety and a new start for us both."
For some curious reason Joseph did not immediately reply.
Then he spoke slowly, just as the cab rolled under the massive archway which guards the station courtyard.
"Thank you, indeed!" he answered. "But when you spoke, I had a sort of presentiment that I should never need your aid. I can't account for it, but it was strong and sudden."
"Oh, don't say that, old fellow! You must not be morbid, you know. You will outlive most of us, without a doubt."
"I did not mean that I felt that I should die, Hampson. Rather a sensation came to me that I was about to enter some new and strange life which—"
The cab stopped.
"You and the porter must help me down," Joseph said, with a faint, musing smile of singular sweetness and—so Hampson thought—of inward anticipation and hope.
There was yet half an hour before the train was to start. It had been thought better that Joseph should make a night journey to Wales. The weather was very hot, and he would have more chance of rest.