They brought them up, as against a dead wall of dreariness and disappointment, at the Littleton station.  It had been managed as it always is:  the train had turned most ingeniously into a corner whence there was scarcely an outlook upon anything of all the magnificence that must yet be lying close about them; and here was only a tolerably well-populated country town, filled up to just the point that excludes the picturesque and does not attain to the highly civilized.  And into the heart of this they were to be borne, and to be shut up there this summer night, with the full moon flooding mountain and river, and the woods whispering up their peace to heaven.

It was bad enough, but worse came.  The hotel coach was waiting, and they hastened to secure their seats, giving their checks to the driver, who disappeared with a handful of these and others, leaving his horses with the reins tied to the dash-board, and a boy ten years old upon the box.

There were heads out anxiously at either side, between concern for safety of body and of property.  Mrs. Linceford looked uneasily toward the confused group upon the platform, from among whom luggage began to be drawn out in a fashion regardless of covers and corners.  The large russet trunk with the black “H,”—­the two linen-cased ones with “Hadden” in full;—­the two square bonnet-boxes,—­these, one by one, were dragged and whirled toward the vehicle and jerked upon the rack; but the “ark,” as they called Mrs. Linceford’s huge light French box, and the one precious receptacle that held all Leslie’s pretty outfit, where were these?

“Those are not all, driver!  There is a high black French trunk, and a russet leather one.”

“Got all you give me checks for,—­seb’m pieces;” and he pointed to two strange articles of luggage waiting their turn to be lifted up,—­a long, old-fashioned gray hair trunk, with letters in brass nails upon the lid, and as antiquated a carpet-bag, strapped and padlocked across the mouth, suggestive in size and fashion of the United States mail.

“Never saw them before in my life!  There’s some dreadful mistake!  What can have become of ours?”

“Can’t say, ma’am, I’m sure.  Don’t often happen.  But them was your checks.”

Mrs. Linceford leaned back for an instant in a breathless despair.  “I must get out and see.”

“If you please, ma’am.  But ’t ain’t no use.  The things is all cleared off.”  Then, stooping to examine the trunk, and turning over the bag, “Queer, too.  These things is chalked all right for Littleton.  Must ha’ been a mistake with the checks, and somebody changed their minds on the way,—­Plymouth, most likely,—­and stopped with the wrong baggage.  Wouldn’t worry, ma’am; it’s as bad for one as for t’ other, anyhow, and they’ll be along to-morrow, no kind o’ doubt.  Strays allers turns up on this here road.  No danger about that.  I’ll see to havin’ these ’ere stowed away in the baggage-room.”  And shouldering the bag, he seized the trunk by the handle and hauled it along over the rough embankment and up the steps, flaying one side as he went.