tion-time
just now, and Clara was her guest, and Mad Mathesis was showing her the
sights of that Eighth Wonder of the world--London.

"The Charing Cross Metropolitan Station!" she resumed, waving her hand
towards the entrance as if she were introducing her niece to a friend.
"The Bayswater and Birmingham Extension is just completed, and the
trains now run round and round continuously--skirting the border of
Wales, just touching at York, and so round by the east coast back to
London. The way the trains run is _most_ peculiar. The westerly ones go
round in two hours; the easterly ones take three; but they always manage
to start two trains from here, opposite ways, punctually every
quarter-of-an-hour."

"They part to meet again," said Clara, her eyes filling with tears at
the romantic thought.

"No need to cry about it!" her aunt grimly remarked. "They don't meet on
the same line of rails, you know. Talking of meeting, an idea strikes
me!" she added, changing the subject with her usual abruptness. "Let's
go opposite ways round, and see which can meet most trains. No need for
a chaperon--ladies' saloon, you know. You shall go whichever way you
like, and we'll have a bet about it!"

"I never make bets," Clara said very gravely. "Our excellent preceptress
has often warned us----"

"You'd be none the worse if you did!" Mad Mathesis interrupted. "In
fact, you'd be the better, I'm certain!"

"Neither does our excellent preceptress approve of puns," said Clara.
"But we'll have a match, if you like. Let me choose my train," she added
after a brief mental calculation, "and I'll engage to meet exactly half
as many again as you do."

"Not if you count fair," Mad Mathesis bluntly interrupted. "Remember, we
only count the trains we meet _on the way_. You mustn't count the one
that starts as you start, nor the one that arrives as you arrive."

"That will only make the difference of _one_ train," said Clara, as they
turned and entered the station. "But I never travelled alone before.
There'll be no one to help me to alight. However, I don't mind. Let's
have a match."

A ragged little boy overheard her remark, and came running after her.
"Buy a box of cigar-lights, Miss!" he pleaded, pulling her shawl to
attract her attention. Clara stopped to explain.

"I never smoke cigars," she said in a meekly apologetic tone. "Our
excellent preceptress----," but Mad Mathesis impatiently hurried her on,
and the little boy was left gazing