begun to slacken its pace; presently, it stopped at a large station. The old lady roused herself, tied her bonnet strings, and evidently prepared for a move.

“You’re going farther, my dear,” she said kindly. “Dornton is the next station but one. You won’t mind being alone a little while?”

She nodded and smiled from the platform. Anna handed out her numerous parcels and baskets: the train moved on, and she was now quite alone. She might really begin to look out for Dornton, which must be quite near. It seemed a long time coming, however, and she had made a good many false starts, grasping her rugs and umbrella, before there was an unmistakable shout of “Dornton!” She got out and looked up and down the platform, but it was easy to see that Mrs Forrest was not there. Two porters, a newspaper boy, and one or two farmers, were moving about in the small station, but no one in the least like Aunt Sarah. Anna stood irresolute. She had been so certain that Aunt Sarah would be there, that she had not even wondered what she should do in any other case. Mrs Forrest had promised to come herself, and Anna could not remember that she had ever failed to carry out her arrangements at exactly the time named.

“If it had been father, now,” she said to herself in her perplexity, “he would perhaps have forgotten, but Aunt Sarah—”

“Any luggage, miss?” asked the red-faced young porter.

“Oh yes, please,” said Anna; “and I expected some one to meet me—a lady.”

She looked anxiously at him.

“Do ’ee want to go into the town?” he asked, as Anna pointed out her trunks. “There’s a omnibus outside.”

“No; I want to go to Waverley Vicarage,” said Anna, feeling very deserted. “How can I get there?”

She followed the porter as he wheeled the boxes outside the station, where a small omnibus was waiting, and also a high spring-cart, in which sat a well-to-do-looking farmer.

“You ain’t seen no one from Waverley, Mr Oswald?” said the porter. “This ’ere young lady expects some one to meet her.”

The farmer looked thoughtfully at Anna.

“Waverley, eh,” he repeated, “Vicarage?”

“Ah,” said the porter, nodding.

Another long gaze.

“Well, I’m going by the gate myself,” he said at last. “I reckon Molly wouldn’t make much odds of the lot,” glancing at the luggage, “if the young lady would like a lift.”

“Perhaps,” said Anna, hesitatingly, “I’d better have a cab, as Mrs Forrest is not here.”

“I could order you a fly at the Blue Boar,” said the porter. “’Twouldn’t be ready, not for a half-hour or so. Mr Oswald ’d get yer over a deal quicker.”

No cabs! What a strange place, and how unlike London! Anna glanced uncertainly at the high cart, the tall strawberry horse stamping impatiently, and the good-natured, brown face of the farmer. It would be an odd way of arriving at Waverley, and she was not at all sure that Aunt Sarah would approve of it; but what was she to do? It was very kind of the farmer; would he expect to be paid?

“Better come along, missie,” said Mr Oswald, as these thoughts passed rapidly through her mind. “You’ll be over in a brace of shakes.—Hoist them things in at the back, Jim.”

Almost before she knew it, Anna had taken the broad hand held out to help her, had mounted the high step, and was seated by the farmer’s side.

“Any port in a storm, eh?” he said, good-naturedly, as he put the rug over her knees.—“All right at the back, Jim?”

A shake of the reins, and Molly dashed forward with a bound that almost threw Anna off her seat, and whirled the cart out of the station-yard at what seemed to her a fearful pace.

“She’ll quiet down directly,” said Mr Oswald; “she’s fretted a bit standing at the station. Don’t ye be nervous, missie; there’s not a morsel of harm in her.”

Nevertheless, Anna felt obliged to grasp the side of the cart tightly as Molly turned into the principal street of Dornton, which was wide, and, fortunately, nearly empty. What a quiet, dull-looking street it was, after the noisy rattle of London, and how low and small the shops and houses looked! If only Molly would go a little slower!

“Yonder’s the church,” said Mr Oswald, pointing up a steep side-street with his whip; “and yonder’s the river,” waving it in the opposite direction.

Anna turned her head quickly, and caught a hurried glimpse of a grey tower on one side, and a thin white streak in the distant, low-lying meadows on the other.

“And here’s the new bank,” continued Mr Oswald, with some pride, as they passed a tall, red brick building which seemed to stare the other houses out of countenance; “and the house inside the double white gates is Dr Hunt’s.”

“I suppose you know Dornton very well?” Anna said as he paused.

“Been here, man and boy, a matter of forty years—leastways, in the neighbourhood,” replied the farmer.

“Then you know where Mr Goodwin lives, I suppose?” said Anna.

“Which of ’em?” said the farmer. “There’s Mr Goodwin, the baker; and Mr Goodwin, the organist at Saint Mary’s.”

“Oh, the organist,” said Anna.

“To be sure I do. He lives in Number 4 Back Row. You can’t see it from here; it’s an ancient part of Dornton, in between High Street and Market Street. He’s been here a sight of years—every one knows Mr Goodwin—he’s as well known as the parish church is.”

Anna felt pleased to hear that. It convinced her that her grandfather must be an important person, although Back Row did not sound a very important place.

“How fast your horse goes,” she said, by way of continuing the conversation, for, after her long silence in the train, it was quite pleasant to talk to somebody.

“Ah, steps out, doesn’t she?” said the farmer, with a gratified chuckle. “You won’t beat her for pace this side of the county. She was bred at Leas Farm, and she’s a credit to it.”

They were now clear of the town, and had turned off the dusty high-road into a lane, with high hedges on either side.

“Oh, how pretty!” cried Anna.

She could see over these hedges, across the straggling wreaths of dog-roses and clematis, to the meadows on either hand, where the tall grass, sprinkled with silvery ox-eyed daisies, stood ready for hay. Beyond these again came the deep brown of some ploughed land, and now and then bits of upland pasture, with cows and sheep feeding. The river Dorn, which Mr Oswald had pointed out from the town, wound its zigzag course along the valley, which they were now leaving behind them. As they mounted a steep hill, Molly had considerably slackened her speed, so that Anna could look about at her ease and observe all this.

“What a beautiful place this is!” she exclaimed with delight.

“Well enough,” said the farmer; “nice open country. Yonder pasture, where the cows are, belongs to me; if you’re stopping at Waverley, missie, I can show you a goodish lot of cows at Leas Farm.”

“Oh, I should love to see them!” said Anna.

“My little daughter ’ll be proud to show ’em yer; she’s just twelve years old, Daisy is. Now, you wouldn’t guess what I gave her as a birthday present?”

“No,” said Anna; “I can’t guess at all.”

“’Twas as pretty a calf as you ever saw, with a white star on its forehead. Nothing would do after that but I must buy her a collar for it. ‘Puppa,’ she says, ‘when you go into Dornton, you must get me a collar and a bell, like there is in my picture-book.’ My word!” said the farmer, slapping his knee, “how all the beasts carried on when they first heard that bell in the farmyard! You never saw such antics! It was like as if they were clean mad!”

He threw back his head and gave a jolly laugh at the bare recollection; it was so hearty and full of enjoyment, that Anna felt obliged to