station, which was the junction for Quebec, and passengers bound for the
English settlements south of that city were obliged to change.

For a few minutes before the train stopped the Rexford family had been
booted and spurred, so to speak, ready for the transfer. Each young
person was warmly buttoned up and tied into a warlike-looking muffler.
Each had several packages in charge. A youth came in from the
smoking-car and attached himself to them. When the train had come to a
standstill the little French conductor was energetic in helping them to
descend.

The family was very large, and, moreover, it was lively; its members
were as hard to count as chickens of a brood. Sophia, holding the
youngest child and the tickets, endeavoured to explain their number to
the conductor.

"There are three children that go free," she said. "Then two little boys
at half fare--that makes one ticket. Myself and three young ladies--make
five tickets; my brother and father and mother--eight."

The sharp Frenchman looked dubious. "Three children free; two at half
fare," he repeated. He was trying to see them all as he spoke.

Sophia repeated her count with terse severity.

"There was not another young lady?"

"Certainly not."

And Sophia was not a woman to be trifled with, so he punched the tickets