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