A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. He stood transfixed. It was she! The Dawn Pearl! He vaulted the veranda rail, careless now whether or not he was heard, and ran down to the beach. The gate was opened; the coffin brought into the churchyard; and Jack, whose eyes were filled with tears, saw Mr. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne.
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