Presently the sun rises over the distant hills, and the red arms of the signals stand out clearly defined, and then the noise of wheels, the shouts of the drivers, and the quick sound of hoofs betoken the approach of the milk carts with their freight for the early morning train.  From the platform it is out of sight; but a few yards from the gate a small inn is hidden under the tall elms of the hedgerow.  It has sprung up since the railway came, and is called the Railway Hotel.  It proffers good stabling, and even a fly and posting for the passenger who finds himself set down at that lonely place—­a mere road—­without the certainty of a friendly carriage meeting him.  The porter may, perhaps, be taking his glass within.  The inspector or stationmaster (whichever may be technically correct), now that the afternoon express has gone safely through, has strolled up the line to his garden, to see how his potatoes are getting on.  He knows full well that the slow, stopping train despatched just after it will not reach his station for at least an hour.

Outside the ‘Hotel’ stands a pony cart—­a gaily coloured travelling rug lies across the seat, and the pony, a perfect little beauty, is cropping the grass by the hedge side.  By-and-by a countryman comes up the road, evidently a labourer dressed in his best—­he hastens to the ‘Hotel,’ instead of to the station, and finds from the porter that he is at least twenty minutes too soon.  Then a waggon arrives, and stops while the carter drinks.  Presently the porter and the labourer stroll together over to the platform, and after them a young fellow—­a farmer’s son, not yet a man but more than a boy—­comes out and re-arranges the travelling rug in the pony cart.  He then walks on to the platform, whistling defiantly with his hands in his pockets, as if he had got an unpleasant duty to perform, but was not going to be intimidated.  He watches the stationmaster unlock the booking-office, and follows him in out of idle curiosity.

It is booking-office, parcel-office, waiting-room and all combined, and the telegraph instrument is there too, some of the needles blocked over with a scrap of paper.  The place is crammed with sacks, bags, boxes, parcels and goods mixed together, such as ironwork for agricultural machines, and in a corner lies a rick-cloth smelling strongly of tar like the rigging of a ship.  On the counter, for there is no sliding window as usual at large stations, stands the ticket-stamping machine, surrounded with piles of forms, invoices, notices, letters, and the endless documents inseparable from railway business, all printed on a peculiar paper with a faint shade of yellow.

Somebody says ‘A’ be coming,’ and the young farmer walks out to watch the white steam now just visible far away over the trees.  The train runs round the curve on to the straight, and the engine in front grows gradually larger and larger as it comes nearer, visibly vibrating till the brake draws it up at the platform.