ox, and the engine and train puffed on.

"You'll send it up as soon as it comes," said the traveller to the
station-master.

"Where to, sir?"

The stranger raised his eyes in slight surprise, and pointed to the house
in the distance. He had assumed that he was known.

"To Hartledon."

Then he _was_ one of the family! The station-master touched his hat.
Mr. Jones, in the background, touched his, and for the first time the
traveller's eye fell upon him as he was turning to leave the platform.

"Why, Jones! It's never you?"

"Yes, it is, sir." But Mr. Jones looked abashed as he acknowledged
himself. And it may be observed that his language, when addressing this
gentleman, was a slight improvement upon the homely phraseology of his
everyday life.

"But--you are surely not working here!--a porter!"

"My business fell through, sir," returned the man. "I'm here till I can
turn myself round, sir, and get into it again."

"What caused it to fall through?" asked the traveller; a kindly sympathy
in his fine blue eyes.

Mr. Jones shuffled upon one foot. He would not have given the true
answer--"Drinking"--for the world.

"There's such opposition started up in the place, sir; folks would draw
your heart's blood from you if they could. And then I've such a lot of
mouths to feed. I can't think what the plague such a tribe of children
come for. Nobody wants 'em."

The traveller laughed; but put no further questions. Remembering somewhat
of Mr. Jones's propensity in the old days, he thought perhaps something
besides children and opposition had had to do with the downfall. He stood
for a moment looking at the station which had not been completed when he
last saw it--and a very pretty station it was, surrounded by its gay
flowerbeds--and then went down the road.

"I suppose he is one of the Hartledon family, Jones?" said the
station-master, looking after him.

"He's the earl's brother," replied Mr. Jones, relapsing into sulkiness.
"There's only them two left; t'other died. Wonder if they be coming to
Hartledon again? Calne haven't seemed the same since they left it."

"Which is this one?"

"He can't be anybody but himself," retorted Mr. Jones, irascibly, deeming
the question superfluous. "There be but the two left, I say--the earl and
him; everybody knows him for the Honourable Percival Elster. The other
son, George, died; leastways, was murdered."

"Murdered!" echoed the station-master aghast.

"I don't see that