anxious to have news of my sister, who had that morning undergone a
slight operation; but I was not gravely disquieted, because no serious
complications were expected.

When I reached my house there were two telegrams awaiting me, one to say
that the operation had gone well, the other from Canon Sharrock, of
Salford, to say that my brother was dangerously ill of pneumonia. I
wired at once for a further report, and before it arrived made up my
mind that I must go to him. I waited till the reply came--it was a
little more favourable--went up to London, and caught a midnight train
for Manchester.

The news had the effect which a sudden shock is apt to have, of inducing
a sense of curious unreality. I neither read nor slept, nor even thought
coherently. I was just aware of disaster and fear. I was alone in my
compartment. Sometimes we passed through great, silent, deserted
stations, or stopped outside a junction for an express to pass. At one
or two places there was a crowd of people, seeing off a party of
soldiers, with songs and cheers. Further north I was aware at one time
that the train was labouring up a long incline, and I had a faint sense
of relief when suddenly the strain relaxed, and the train began to run
swiftly and smoothly downwards; I had just one thought, the desire to
reach my brother, and over and over again the dread of what I might
hear.

It was still dark and chilly when I arrived at Manchester. The great
station was nearly empty. I drove hurriedly through dimly-lit streets.
Sometimes great factories towered up, or dark house-fronts shuttered
close. Here there were high steel networks of viaducts overhead, or
parapets of bridges over hidden waterways. At last I came to where a