We wish the fatal moment to arrive and end our suspense.

We know of a thousand things we want to say, but the time slips by wasted, and hangs drearily on our hands.

We have not the spirit to look forward, or the heart to look back.

We long to have it all over, and yet every stroke of the clock falls like a cruel knell on our ears.

We long that we could fall asleep, and wake to find ourselves on the other side of the crisis we dread.
So it was with the Crudens; and when at last the little trio stood on the Monday on the platform of Euston Station, all three felt that they would give anything to have the last few days back again.
"I'll write, mother, as often as ever I can," said Reginald, trying to speak as if the words did not stick in his throat.
"Tell us all about your quarters, and what you have to do, and all that," said Horace.
Mrs Cruden had no words.