Now, as her eyes were cast down, it was impossible that she could have noticed the quick expression of disappointment that crossed his face.  Was it that she herself was instantly conscious of the coldness of her greeting, and anxious to atone for that?  Was it that she plucked up heart of grace?  At all events, she suddenly offered him both her hands with a frank courage; she looked him in the face with the soft, tender, serious eyes; and then, before she turned away, the low voice said,

“Brother, I welcome you!”

CHAPTER XIII.

SOUTHWARD.

After a late, cold, and gloomy spring, a glimpse of early summer shone over the land; and after a long period of anxious and oftentimes irritating and disappointing travail—­in wet and dismal towns, in comfortless inns, with associates not always to his liking—­George Brand was hurrying to the South.  Ah, the thought of it, as the train whirled along on this sunlit morning!  After the darkness, the light; after fighting, peace; after the task-work, a smile of reward!  No more than that was his hope; but it was a hope that kept his heart afire and glad on many a lonely night.

At length his companion, who had slept steadily on ever since they had entered the train at Carlisle, at about one in the morning, awoke, rubbed his eyes, and glanced at the window.

“We are going to have a fine day at last, Humphreys,” said Brand.

“They have been having better weather in the South, sir.”

The man looked like a well-dressed mechanic.  He had an intelligent face, keen and hard.  He spoke with the Newcastle burr.

“I wish you would not call me ‘sir,’” Brand said, impatiently.

“It comes natural, somehow, sir,” said the other, with great simplicity.  “There is not a man in any part of the country, but would say ‘sir’ to one of the Brands of Darlington.  When Mr. Lind telegraphed to me you were coming down, I telegraphed back, ’Is he one of the Brands of Darlington?’ and when I got his answer I said to myself, ’Here is the man to go to the Political Committee of the Trades-union Congress:  they won’t fight shy of him.’”

“Well, we have no great cause to grumble at what has been done in that direction; but that infernal Internationale is doing a deal of mischief.  There is not a trades-unionist in the country who does not know what is going on in France.  A handful of irresponsible madmen trying to tack themselves on to the workmen’s association—­well, surely the men will have more sense than to listen.  The congres ouvrier to change its name, and to become the congres revolutionnaire!  When I first went to Jackson, Molyneux, and the others, I found they had a sort of suspicion that we wanted to make Communists of them and tear society to pieces.”

“You have done more in a couple of months, sir, than we all have done in the last ten years,” his companion said.