t time for the canny little morsel of humanity
to weigh the wisdom of an answer, the question was shot at him and he
was left gasping and speechless after an incriminating "Yes," forced
from him by the suddenness of the onslaught, and the truth-compelling
power of those keen eyes. "Least it's Hibbault," he added unwillingly.
"Jim, they calls me."

"I think it is Christopher as well, and I prefer Christopher. And what
are you doing on the Great Road at this hour in the afternoon,
Christopher?"

And Jim--or Christopher,--trained and renowned for a useful
evasiveness of retort in those far-off London days, answered
mechanically: "Waiting for the fortune to come true."

Then the hot blood rushed to his face from sheer shame at his own
betrayal of the darling secret of his small existence.

"Your fortune?" echoed the other slowly. "Fortunes do not come for
waiting. What do you mean?"

"It was the old woman said so--mother didn't believe it. She said as
how my fortune would come to me on the Great Road. There wer'n't no
Great Road there, so when I heard as how they called this the Great
Road, I just stuck to it."

It was a long speech. The boy had none of the half-stupid stolidity
of the country-bred, and yet lacked something of the garrulity of the
cute street lad. His voice too was a surprise. The broad vowels seemed
acquired and uncertain and jarred on the hearer with a sense of
misfit.

"Do you live at Whitmansworth Union?"

There was a faint tinge of resentment in the short "Yes."

How did the gentleman know it, and, anyhow, why should he tell him?
Jim felt irritated.

The owner of the phaeton stood still a moment with one hand on the
dusty little shoulder, and then looked round at the water-meadows, the
distant copses, the more distant shimmering downs. Then he laughed,
saying something the boy did not understand, and looked down at the
sharp inquiring little face again.

"Which means, Christopher, hide-and-seek is an easy game when it's
over," he explained. "Come and show me where you live."

They walked back towards the carriage together. The elderly gentleman
holding the reins was looking back at them; so was the groom. The
elderly gentleman cast a puzzled, inquiring glance from the boy to his
companion as they came near.

"Fortune meets us on the road-side, Stapleton," said the owner of the
phaeton. "Let me introduce you to Christopher Hibbault. Get up,
child."

Get up? Mount that quietly magnifi