At another time, on a fine day perhaps, and not at the end of a tiring railway journey, Kathleen might have found it amusing. And as a rule, she was far merrier and high-spirited than Neville, though, to see them now, one would scarcely have believed it. But Neville had learnt to think of others more than of himself. There was the difference. Kathleen could be bright and laughing when all went well with her, but it never occurred to her that it may be a duty to be cheerful and even merry when one is not inclined to be so, so she just yielded to her feelings of fatigue and depression, and sat silently in her place, thinking herself, to tell the truth, very good indeed not to grumble aloud. Neville did his best. He was tired too—tired and cold, for he had given his rug to Kathie, and hungry, perhaps hungrier than Kathie, for she had had the lion's share of their dinner. He was anxious and uneasy as well,—blaming himself for not having decided to wait till Friday, by which day there would have been time for an answer from their aunt,—blaming himself vaguely for the whole affair, which he felt from first to last had been his doing. And he was afraid as to what might yet be before them. It seemed impossible that Miss Clotilda should not have got the letter fixing for Wednesday. So what could be the matter? Had she fallen ill? Had Mr. Wynne-Carr suddenly changed his mind, and turned her out of the house? What might they not find when they got to Ty-gwyn? If, indeed, they ever got there! It did not seem very like it just then, certainly. They were going up a hill at a foot's pace, and they seemed to have been doing so, with very rare intervals, ever since they left the station. How the van lurched and jolted! and, oh, how it did rain!
'Kathleen,' said Neville timidly.
'Well,' she replied, in a very unpromising tone. It was so dark in the depths of the van—and, indeed, it was getting dusk outside already—that they could scarcely see each other's faces.
'I'm so very sorry for you, Kathie,' Neville went on. 'I'm afraid it's somehow my fault.'
'It's no good saying that now,' Kathleen replied, and her voice sounded a little mollified. 'Of course it isn't your fault. It's all Aunt Clotilda. Neville, I'm sure she can't be nice. If she had had anything to gain by hiding it, I declare I should have believed she herself had hidden the will—or burnt it, or something. Just fancy her letting us—her brother's own children—arrive like this! I daresay it was just selfishness, because it was such a bad day, that kept her from coming.'
'Oh, Kathie!' said Neville. He felt sure in his heart that Miss Clotilda was not the least like what Kathleen said, but in her present humour he knew that it was worse than useless to contradict or even disagree with his sister. 'I wish there was something to eat,' he said. 'If we could but have had some tea at the station, but there was no sort of refreshment-room.'
'Wales is horrid,' said Kathleen, with great emphasis. 'If papa had got that place I should have made him sell it.'
'I do wish the man would drive a little faster,' said Neville, rather with a view to changing the subject, as he could not agree with Kathie.
The wish in this case proved father to the deed. Scarcely had the words passed his lips when, with a crack of his whip and some mysterious communication to his horse in Welsh, Mr. John Williams's van began to move forward at what, in comparison with their former rate of progression, seemed to the children break-neck speed. For a minute or so their spirits rose.
'We've got up the hill now, I suppose,' said Neville cheerily. 'If we go on like this we'll soon be there.'