be the Pope o' Rome, my dear, an' he may be the Dook o' Wellington,
an' not a soul here wud know t'other from which no mor'n if he was
Adam. All I says is--the Lord send he's a professin' Christian, an'
has his linen washed reg'lar. My! What a crush! I only wish my boy
Jan was here to see; but he's stayin' at home, my dear, cos his
father means to kill the pig to-day, an' the dear child do so love to
hear'n screech."

The Admiral, who happened by the merest chance to be sauntering along
the Station Road this morning, in his best blue frock-coat with a
flower in the buttonhole, corrected some of the rumours, but without
much success. Finding the throng so thick, he held a long debate
between curiosity and dignity. The latter won, and he returned to
No. 2, Alma Villas, in a flutter, some ten minutes before the train
was due.

By noon the crowd was growing impatient. But hardly had the church
clock chimed the hour when the shriek of a whistle was heard from up
the valley. Amid wild excitement a puff of white smoke appeared,
then another, and finally the mid-day train steamed serenely into the
station.

As it drew up, a mild spectacled face appeared at the window of a
first-class carriage, and asked--

"Is this Troy?"

"Yessir--terminus. Any luggage, sir?"

The mild face got out. It belonged to the only stranger in the