s
they go. An engine snorts to and fro, shunting coal waggons on to the
siding--coal for the traction engines, and to be consumed in threshing out
the golden harvest around. Signalmen, with red and green lights, rush
hither and thither, the bull's-eyes now concealed by the trucks, and now
flashing out brightly like strange will-o'-the-wisps. At intervals long
and heavy goods trains go by, causing the solid earth to tremble.

Presently the sun rises over the distant hills, and the red arms of the
signals stand out clearly defined, and then the noise of wheels, the
shouts of the drivers, and the quick sound of hoofs betoken the approach
of the milk carts with their freight for the early morning train. From the
platform it is out of sight; but a few yards from the gate a small inn is
hidden under the tall elms of the hedgerow. It has sprung up since the
railway came, and is called the Railway Hotel. It proffers good stabling,
and even a fly and posting for the passenger who finds himself set down at
that lonely place--a mere road--without the certainty of a friendly
carriage meeting him. The porter may, perhaps, be taking his glass within.
The inspector or stationmaster (whichever may be technically correct), now
that the afternoon express has gone safely through, has strolled up the
line to his garden, to see how his potatoes are getting on. He knows full
well that the slow, stopping train despatched just after it will not reach
his station for at least an hour.

Outside the 'Hotel' stands a pony cart--a gaily coloured travelling rug
lies across the seat, and the pony, a perfect little beauty, is cropping
the grass by the hedge side. By-and-by a countryman comes up the road,
evidently a labourer dressed in his best--he hastens to the 'Hotel,'
instead of to the station, and finds from the porter that he is at least
twenty minutes too soon. Then a waggon arrives, and stops while the carter
drinks. Presently the porter and the labourer stroll together over to the
platform, and after them a young fellow--a farmer's son, not yet a man but
more than a boy--comes out and re-arranges the travelling rug in the pony
cart. He then walks on to the platform, whistling defiantly with his hands
in his pockets, as if he had got an unpleasant duty to perform, but was
not going to be intimidated. He watches the stationmaster unlock the
booking-office, and follows him in out of idle curiosity.

It is booking-office, parcel-office, waiting-