“How far is it to the station?” I inquired.

The twins stared at me.

Presently we turned down a lane scored with dry ruts, passed an oak plantation, and came on a clearing where the train stood ready.  The line did not finish:  it ended in a heap of sand.  There were eight trucks, seven of them laden with granite, and an engine, with a prodigiously long funnel, bearing the name The Wonder of the Age in brass letters along its boiler.

“Now,” said one of the twins, while the other raked up the furnace, “you can ride in the empty truck with the lovers, or on the engine along with us—­which you like.”

I chose the engine.  We climbed on board, gave a loud whistle, and jolted oil.  Far down, on our right, the river shone between the trees, and these trees, encroaching on the track, almost joined their branches above us.  Ahead, the moss that grew upon the sleepers gave the line the appearance of a green glade, and the grasses, starred with golden-rod and mallow, grew tall to the very edge of the rails.  It seemed that in a few more years Nature would cover this scar of 1834, and score the return match against man.  Hails, engine, officials, were already no better than ghosts:  youth, and progress lay in the pushing trees, the salmon leaping against the dam below, the young man and maid sitting with clasped hands and amatory looks in the hindmost truck.

At the end of three miles or so we gave an alarming whistle, and slowed down a bit.  The trees were thinner here, and I saw that a high-road came down the hill, and cut across our track some fifty yards ahead.  We prepared to cross it cautiously.

“Ho-o-oy!  Stop!”

The brake was applied, and as we came to a standstill a party of men and women descended the hill towards us.

“‘Tis Susan Warne’s seventh goin’ to be christen’d, by the look of it,” said the engine-driver beside me; “an’, by crum! we’ve got the Kimbly.”

The procession advanced.  In the midst walked a stout woman, carrying a baby in long clothes, and in front a man bearing in both hands a plate covered with a white cloth.  He stepped up beside the train, and, almost before I had time to be astonished, a large yellow cake was thrust into my hands.  Engine-driver and stoker were also presented with a cake apiece, and then the newly-married pair, who took and ate with some shyness and giggling.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” asked the stoker, with his mouth full.

“A boy,” the man answered; “and I count it good luck that you men of modern ways should be the first we meet on our way to church.  The child ’ll be a go-ahead if there’s truth in omens.”

“You’re right, naybour.  We’re the speediest men in this part of the universe, I d’ believe.  Here’s luck to ’ee, Susan Warne!” he piped out, addressing one of the women; “an’ if you want a name for your seventh, you may christen ’en after the engine here, the Wonder of the Age.”