The White Glove by Fred M. White — Read

It was a little after eight when Clifford arose very anxious and depressed, but refreshed and invigorated by seven hours good sleep. He had to be careful with his coppers, four pence sufficing for breakfast, the remainder to be spent on the road. By buttoning up his overcoat and turning up the collar, he pretty well disguised his evening dress beneath. Then he set his face doggedly south, walking at a good round pace. By three o'clock he had reached Tunbridge Wells, where he spent his remaining coppers, and started on again for the last seven miles of his journey. It was past four when he reached his little cottage looking on the golf links at Crowborough. As he opened the door of the little sitting room kitchen Madeline flew to meet him. There were dark rings under her lovely eyes, the pretty face was white and anxious. For a little time Madeline contented herself with hanging round her husband's neck.

"I have been so dreadfully anxious," she said. "When I found in the village that you had not come by the last train, and no telegram arrived, I did not know what to think. All I could do was to hope for the best. How did you get here now, Clifford?"