road, he was obviously not a professional chauffeur.

"You'll be Mr. Foster, sir, for the Garth?" he said.

Foster said he was and the man resumed: "Mr. Featherstone sent the car
and his apologies. He had to attend the court, being a magistrate, and
hoped you would excuse his not coming."

Then he picked up Foster's portmanteau and called a porter, who was
moving some clanging milk cans, to bring his bag.

"Never mind; I'll take it," Foster told him.

"As you like, sir, but it's perhaps not quite usual in this country,"
the other answered in a deprecatory tone.

"I suppose I ought to have remembered that," Foster agreed smiling.

They crossed the platform, and while they waited for the bag the man
said respectfully, "Might I ask if Mr. Lawrence was better when you
left, sir? It was a disappointment to us when we heard he could not
come home."

Foster liked the fellow. He was very formal, but seemed to include
himself in his master's family.

"Yes," he said. "In fact, I expect he'll be quite well in a month or
two. I suppose you were at the Garth before my partner left?"

"I've served Mr. Featherstone for thirty years, sir, and led Mr.
Lawrence's first pony and cleaned his first gun. It wasn't my regular
duty, sir, but he was the only son and I looked after him. If I may
say so, we were much upset when we heard that he was ill."

Then the bag was brought, and as the car ran across the moor Foster
noted the smooth, hard surface of the wet road. The country was wild
and desolate, but they had no roads like this in Canada, except perhaps
in one or two of the larger cities. Indeed, in Western towns he knew,
it was something of an adventure to cross the street during the spring
thaw. The light got red and angry as they dipped into the valley; the
firs on the hillcrest stood out black and sharp, and then melted into
the gray background. A river pool shone with a ruby gleam that
suddenly went out, and the dim water vanished into the shadow, brawling
among the stones.

There was smooth pasture in the valley, broken by dark squares of
turnip fields and pale stubble; but here and there the heath appeared
again and wild cotton showed faintly white above the black peat-soil.
By and by a cross, standing by itself on the lonely hillside, caught
Foster's eye, and he asked his companion about it.

"The Count's Cross, sir; a courtesy title they held in the next dale.
He was killed in a raid on a tower down the