she reached the top of the railway bridge and peered over the
stone wall, it was with quite a big pang of dismay that she beheld the
empty platform. Not a soul! Not a single soul except a cross-looking
porter sitting astride a barrow, with his hands thrust into his trousers
pockets.

Anything less promising in the shape of a forlorn hope it would be
difficult to imagine, but the circumstances offered no alternative.
Darsie took her courage in both hands and marched boldly towards him.

"Please will you tell me the time of the next train from town?"

The porter rolled his eye sideways, surveyed her up and down, formed an
evidently poor opinion, and without a change of position muttered a curt
reply--

"Ten-thirty."

"Ten-thirty!" Dismay at the lateness of the hour struggled with wounded
pride at the man's lack of respect. Half-past ten before any one could
come to the rescue; three long hours of chill and darkness, with no one
to speak to, and nowhere to go! Darsie threw the thought aside with the
impetuous incredulity of youth.

"When's the next train to town?"

"Nine-ten."

That was better! Nine-ten. If she could manage to travel by that train
she would arrive at the terminus in abundance of time to prevent any one
starting by the next stopping train. It was all easy--perfectly easy,
except for the want of a miserable eightpence, but, alas! for the moment
eightpence seemed as inaccessible as eighty pounds. Darsie bent a
scrutinising glance upon the porter's downcast face. "He looks about as
disagreeable as he can be, but he's a human creature; he must have
_some_ heart! Perhaps he's in trouble, too, and it's soured his
disposition. It would mine! I just _hate_ it when things go wrong. I
don't in the least see why I shouldn't have a ticket on account! I'll
see what I can do."

She coughed and ventured tentatively--

"I missed the last train."

"Did ye!" said the porter coldly. It was not a question; there was no
flicker of the interest of a question in his voice, only a dreary
indifference which seemed to demand what in the world you were thinking
of to trouble him about a stupidity which had happened twenty times a
day throughout twenty years of his service on the line. Darsie drew
herself up with a feeling of affront. He was a rude, ill-mannered man,
who ought to be taught how to speak to ladies in distress. She would
ask her father to complain to the railway!

What were porters pai