home. They waited one hour. A train came—he was not there. Down the line the red and green lights shone. It was very dark and very cold.
“Ask him if the London train’s come,” said Paul to Annie, when they saw a man in a tip cap.
“I’m not,” said Annie. “You be quiet—he might send us off.”
But Paul was dying for the man to know they were expecting someone by the London train: it sounded so grand. Yet he was much too much scared of broaching any man, let alone one in a peaked cap, to dare to ask. The three children could scarcely go into the waiting-room for fear of being sent away, and for fear something should happen whilst they were off the platform. Still they waited in the dark and cold.
“It’s an hour an’ a half late,” said Arthur pathetically.
“Well,” said Annie, “it’s Christmas Eve.”
They all grew silent. He wasn’t coming. They looked down the darkness of the railway. There was London! It seemed the uttermost of distance. They thought anything might happen if one came from London. They were all too troubled to talk. Cold, and unhappy, and silent, they huddled together on the platform.
At last, after more than two hours, they saw the lights of an engine peering round, away down the darkness. A porter ran out. The children drew back with beating hearts. A great train, bound for Manchester, drew up. Two doors opened, and from one of them, William. They flew to him. He handed parcels to them cheerily, and immediately began to explain that this great train had stopped for his sake at such a small station as Sethley Bridge: it was not booked to stop.
Meanwhile the parents were getting anxious. The table was set, the chop was cooked, everything was ready. Mrs. Morel put on her black apron. She was wearing her best dress. Then she sat, pretending to read. The minutes were a torture to her.
“H’m!” said Morel. “It’s an hour an’ a ha’ef.”
“And those children waiting!” she said.
“Th’ train canna ha’ come in yit,” he said.
“I tell you, on Christmas Eve they’re hours wrong.”
They were both a bit cross with each other, so gnawed with anxiety. The ash-tree moaned outside in a cold, raw wind. And a that space of night from London home! Mrs. Morel
