stood the tavern--a
two-story building, with a long piazza running along the front. Here
an extended seat was provided, on which, when the weather was not too
inclement, the floating population of the village, who had plenty of
leisure, and others when their work was over for the day, liked to
congregate, and in neighborly chat discuss the affairs of the village,
or the nation, speculating perchance upon the varying phases of the
great civil contest, which, though raging hundreds of miles away,
came home to the hearts and hearths of quiet Rossville and every other
village and hamlet in the land.

The driver of the carriage which made its daily journeys to and fro from
the station had received from his parents the rather uncommon name of
Ajax, not probably from any supposed resemblance to the ancient Grecian
hero, of whom it is doubtful whether his worthy progenitor had ever
heard. He had been at one time a driver on a horse-car in New York,
but had managed to find his way from the busy hum of the city to quiet
Rossville, where he was just in time for an employment similar to the
one he had given up.

One day, early in November, a young man of slight figure, apparently
not far from twenty-five years of age, descended from the cars at the
Wellington station and, crossing the track, passed through the small
station-house to the rear platform.

"Can you tell me," he inquired of a bystander, "whether there is any
conveyance between this place and Rossville?"

"Yes, sir," was the reply. "That's the regular carriage, and here's the
driver. Ajax, here's a passenger for you."

"I have a trunk on the other side," said the young man, addressing the
driver. "If you wild go round with me, we will bring it here."

"All right, sir," said Ajax, in a businesslike way.

The trunk was brought round and placed on the rack behind the wagon.
It was a large black trunk, securely bound with brass bands, and showed
marks of service, as if it had been considerably used. Two small strips
of paper pasted on the side bore the custom-house marks of Havre and
Liverpool. On one end was a large card, on which, written in large, bold
letters, was the name of the proprietor, Henry Morton.

In five minutes the "express" got under way. The road wound partly
through the woods. In some places the boughs, bending over from opposite
sides, nearly met. At present the branches were nearly destitute of
leaves, and the landscape looked bleak. But in the