"Why, Hubert!--Mr. Seaton!--Here we are!"
She beckoned wildly, and not a few passers-by turned to look at the nodding clouds of tulle.
"We shall find them, Polly--don't shout," said Laura behind her, in some disgust.
Shout and beckon, however, Polly did and would, till the two young men were finally secured.
"Why, Hubert, you never towd me what a big place 'twas," said Polly joyously. "Lor, Mr. Seaton, doant fash yoursel. This is Miss Fountain--my cousin. You'll remember her, I knaw."
Mr. Seaton began a polite and stilted speech while possessing himself of Polly's shawl and bag. He was a very superior young man of the clerk or foreman type, somewhat ill put together at the waist, with a flat back to his head, and a cadaverous countenance. Laura gave him a rapid look. But her chief curiosity was for Hubert. And at her first glance she saw the signs of that strong and silent process perpetually going on amongst us that tames the countryman to the life and habits of the town. It was only a couple of months since the young athlete from the fells had been brought within its sway, and already the marks of it were evident in dress, speech, and manner. The dialect was almost gone; the black Sunday coat was of the most fashionable cut that Froswick could provide; and as they walked along, Laura detected more than once in the downcast eyes of her companion, a stealthy anxiety as to the knees of his new grey trousers. So far the change was not an embellishment. The first loss of freedom and rough strength is never that. But it roused the girl's notice, and a sort of secret sympathy. She too had felt the curb of an alien life!--she could almost have held out her hand to him as to a comrade in captivity.
Outside the station, to Laura's surprise--considering the object of the expedition--Hubert made a sign to his sister, and they two dropped behind a little.
"What's the matter with her?" said Hubert abruptly, as soon as he judged that they were out of hearing of the couple in front.
"Who do you mean? Laura? Why, she's well enoof!"
"Then she don't look it. She's fretting. What's wrong with her?"
As Hubert looked down upon his sister, Polly was startled by the impatient annoyance of look and manner. And how red-rimmed and weary were the lad's eyes! You might have thought he had not slept for a week. Polly's mind ran through a series of conjectures; and she broke out with Westmoreland plainness--