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