CHAPTER X.
THE HOUSE AT MARSHDALE.
IT was a gloomy day, not far off the gloomy month of November, and it was growing towards mid-day, when a train on a small line, branching from the direct London line, drew up at the somewhat insignificant station of Upper Marshdale. A young and beautiful lady, without attendants, descended from a first-class carriage.
"Any luggage, ma'am?" inquired a porter, stepping up to her.
"A small black bag; nothing else."
The bag was found in the van, and placed on the platform. A family, who also appeared to have arrived at their destination, closed round the van and were tumultuous over a missing trunk, and the lady drew back and accosted a stolid-looking lad, dressed in the railway uniform.
"How far is it to Marshdale?"