A Hardy Norseman by Edna Lyall

On the following Monday afternoon, Roy Boniface, pale and worn with all that he had been through, paced the arrival platform at King's Cross Station. Already the train from Hull was signaled and he longed for Sigrid's advent, yet dreaded unspeakably the first few moments, the hurried questions, the sad answers that must follow. The steamer had been hindered by a fog, and the passengers had not been landed at Hull until that morning, so that Sigrid had only had time to telegraph the hour of her arrival, and had been unable to wait for a reply to tell her of Frithiof's state. He should have to tell her all-tell her amid the unsympathizing crowd which jarred upon him even now; for during the last few days he had lived so entirely with his patient that the outer world seemed strange to him. His heart beat quickly as the engine darted into sight and one carriage after another flitted past him.

For a minute he could nowhere see her; but hastening up the platform, and closely scanning the travelers, he at length caught sight of the golden hair and black dress which he had been imagining to himself, and heard the clear voice saying, with something of Frithiof's quiet decision: