It was merely a small barn, newly built of pinewood, divided into two rooms—­one serving as a store-room for goods, the other as waiting-room, ticket office, and living-room of the station-master.  The station-master, who was, in fact, master, clerk, and porter in one, was as new to his surroundings as the little fresh-smelling pinewood house.  He was a young Englishman, and at the first glance it could be seen he had not long been living in his present place.  He had, indeed, not yet given up shaving himself, and his clothes, although rough, warm, and suited to his occupation, still suggested, not homespun, but an outfit bought of a tailor.

It was about four o’clock on that November afternoon when the new official of the new station looked out at the dark red land and the bright-tinted cloud.  It was intensely cold.  The ruts of the roads, which were not made of logs here, were frozen stiff.  The young man stood a minute at his door with his hands in his pockets, sniffed the frost, and turned in with an air of distaste.  A letter that had been brought him by the morning train lay on his table, addressed to “Alec Trenholme, Esq.”  It had seen vicissitudes, and been to several addresses in different cities, before it had been finally readdressed to this new station.  Perhaps its owner had not found the path to fortune which he sought in the New World as easily accessible as he had expected.  Whether he had now found it or not, he set himself to that which he had found in manly fashion.

Coming in from the cold without, and shutting himself in, as he supposed, for the evening, he wisely determined to alleviate the peculiar feeling of cold and desolation which the weather was fitted to induce by having an early tea.  He set his pan upon a somewhat rusty stove and put generous slices of ham therein to fry.  He made tea, and then set forth his store of bread, his plates and cup, upon the table, with some apparent effort to make the meal look attractive.  The frying ham soon smelt delicious, and while it was growing brown, Alec Trenholme read his letter for the fifth time that day.  It was not a letter that he liked, but, since the morning train, only two human beings had passed by the station, and the young station-master would have read and re-read a more disagreeable epistle than the one which had fallen to his lot.  It was dated from a place called Chellaston, and was from his brother.  It was couched in terms of affection, and contained a long, closely reasoned argument, with the tenor of which it would seem the reader did not agree, for he smiled at it scornfully!

He had not re-read his letter and dished his ham before sounds on the road assured him an ox-cart was approaching, and, with an eagerness to see who it might be which cannot be comprehended by those who have not lived in isolation, he went out to see Saul and his cattle coming at an even pace down the road from the hills.  The cart ran more easily now that the road was of the better sort, and the spirits of both man and beasts were so raised by the sight of a house that they all seemed in better form for work than when in the middle of their journey.