familiar with Hartledon and its inmates all his life, he had as little
compassion for those who were not so, as he would have had for a man who
did not understand that Garchester was in England.

"The present Earl of Hartledon," said he, shortly. "In his father's
lifetime--and the old lord lived to see Mr. George buried--he was Lord
Elster. Not one of my tribe of brats but could tell that any Lord Elster
must be the eldest son of the Earl of Hartledon," he concluded with a
fling at his superior.

"Ah, well, I have had other things to do since I came here besides
inquiring into titles and folks that don't concern me," remarked the
station-master. "What a good-looking man he is!"

The praise applied to Mr. Elster, after whom he was throwing a parting
look. Jones gave an ungracious assent, and turned into the shed where the
lamps were kept, to begin his morning's work.

All the world would have been ready to echo the station-master's words
as to the good looks of Percival Elster, known universally amidst his
friends as Val Elster; for these good looks did not lie so much in actual
beauty--which one lauds, and another denies, according to its style--as
in the singularly pleasant expression of countenance; a gift that finds
its weight with all.

He possessed a bright face; his complexion was fair and fresh, his eyes
were blue and smiling, his features were good; and as he walked down
the road, and momentarily lifted his hat to push his light hair--as much
of a golden colour as hair ever is--from his brow, and gave a cordial
"good-day" to those who met him on their way to work--few strangers but