"So I have the Camellia at last," thought Mr. Vavasour, "and Miss Neville pinned in the flower I gathered, which she refused to accept; well, strange things happen sometimes; I am certain she never foresaw this."
And he too moved away and followed his hostess.
CHAPTER X.
A PASSING GLANCE.
"And what is life?—An hour glass on the run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream,
Its length?—A minute's pause, a moment's thought;
And happiness?—A bubble on the stream,
That, in the act of seizing, shrinks to naught.
What is vain hope?—the puffing gale of morn,
That robs each flow'ret of its gem,—and dies;
A cobweb, hiding disappointment's thorn,
Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise."
John Clare.
The eight o'clock train came whizzing and puffing into the Standale station; Standale was a large town about ten miles distant from Brampton, and the nearest railway station to the Park. Charles Linchmore had barely time to step on to the platform, ere it was off again and out of sight, puffing as hard and fast as ever.
"Tom has sent me a horse?" questioned he of the porter.