The driver of the carriage which made its daily journeys to and fro from the station had received from his parents the rather uncommon name of Ajax, not probably from any supposed resemblance to the ancient Grecian hero, of whom it is doubtful whether his worthy progenitor had ever heard.  He had been at one time a driver on a horse-car in New York, but had managed to find his way from the busy hum of the city to quiet Rossville, where he was just in time for an employment similar to the one he had given up.

One day, early in November, a young man of slight figure, apparently not far from twenty-five years of age, descended from the cars at the Wellington station and, crossing the track, passed through the small station-house to the rear platform.

“Can you tell me,” he inquired of a bystander, “whether there is any conveyance between this place and Rossville?”

“Yes, sir,” was the reply.  “That’s the regular carriage, and here’s the driver.  Ajax, here’s a passenger for you.”

“I have a trunk on the other side,” said the young man, addressing the driver.  “If you wild go round with me, we will bring it here.”

“All right, sir,” said Ajax, in a businesslike way.

The trunk was brought round and placed on the rack behind the wagon.  It was a large black trunk, securely bound with brass bands, and showed marks of service, as if it had been considerably used.  Two small strips of paper pasted on the side bore the custom-house marks of Havre and Liverpool.  On one end was a large card, on which, written in large, bold letters, was the name of the proprietor, Henry Morton.

In five minutes the “express” got under way.  The road wound partly through the woods.  In some places the boughs, bending over from opposite sides, nearly met.  At present the branches were nearly destitute of leaves, and the landscape looked bleak.  But in the summer nothing could be more charming.

From his seat, beside Ajax, Henry Morton regarded attentively the prominent features of the landscape.  His survey was interrupted by a question from the driver.

“Are you calc’latin’ to make a long stay in our village?” inquired Ajax, with Yankee freedom.

“I am not quite certain.  It is possible that I may.”

“There isn’t much goin’ on in winter.”

“No, I suppose not.”

After a few minutes’ pause, he inquired, “Can you tell me if there is a gentleman living in the village named Haynes?”

“I expect you mean Squire Haynes,” said Ajax.

“Very probably he goes by that name.  He was formerly a lawyer.”

“Yes, that’s the man.  Do you know him?”

“I have heard of him,” said the young man, non-committally.

“Then you ain’t going to stop there?”

An expression of repugnance swept over the young man’s face, as he hastily answered in the negative.

By this time they had come to a turn in the road.  This brought them in view of Chloe’s cottage.  Little Pomp was on all fours, hunting for nuts among the fallen leaves under the shagbark-tree.