“Leave them,” said his sister, contemptuously.  “What are they good for?  A few commonplace autographs in tarnished gilt frames.”

Bridget, meanwhile, went off, threatening all sorts of reprisals on the part of her brother, who “wouldn’t see her imposed upon by the likes of thim, not he!” From the kitchen, at intervals, came up doleful snatches of “Then you’ll remember me,” interrupted by hiccoughs, and with involuntary variations and cadenzas that would have driven “Balfy” mad.

All was ready and they drove off.  The house wherein had lived a Benefactor of Mankind was deserted.

CHAPTER XXII.

Greenleaf found a carriage for Mrs. Sandford, and accompanied her to a private boarding-house, where she took lodgings; he then sent the driver back for her trunks, and, having seen her comfortably provided for, returned to his own rooms,—­but not to remain there.  He desired only to leave a message on his door, explaining his absence.  In less than an hour he was in the railway-train, on his way to Innisfield.

To the musing or drowsy traveller by rail how space and time are annihilated!  He is barely conscious of progress, only when the brakeman with measured tone shouts the name of the station; he looks up from his paper or rouses from his doze, looks out at the cheerless prospect, and then settles himself for another thirty miles.  Time passes as unobserved as the meadows or bushy pastures that flit by the jarring window at his ear.  But with Greenleaf, the reader will believe, the case was far different.  He had never noticed before how slowly the locomotives really moved.  At each station where wood and water were to be taken, it seemed to him the delay was interminable.  His eager desire shot along the track like electricity; and when at last he reached the place where he was to leave the train, he had gone through a year of ordinary hopes and fears.  He mounted the stage-box and took his seat beside the buffalo-clad, coarse-bearded, and grim driver.  The road lay through a hilly country, with many romantic views on either hand.  It was late in the season to see the full glories of autumn; but the trees were not yet bare, and in many places the contrasts of color were exquisite.  For once the driver found his match; he had a passenger as taciturn as himself.  For the first few miles not a word was spoken, saving a few brief threats to the horses; but at last Jehu could hold out no longer; his reputation was in danger, if he allowed any one to be more silent than himself, and he cautiously commenced a skirmish.

“From Boston?”

A nod was the only reply.

“Belong about here?”

“No,” with a shake of the head.

“Ben up here afore, though, I guess?”

“Yes.”

“Thought I remembered.  Year or so ago?”

“Yes.”

“Had a great white cotton umbrill, a box like a shoe-kit, and suthin’ like a pair o’ clo’es-frames?”