The cars were soon on their way, and Oscar’s eyes and attention were fully engaged in taking note of the scenery from the windows.  The appearance of the country did not differ much from that through which he passed the day previous; and long before he reached the end of his eighty-miles’ ride, his attention began to flag, and his eyes to grow weary.  It was about eleven o’clock, when they arrived at the depot at which they were to leave the train.  Here they had an opportunity to rest an hour, and to take dinner, before resuming their journey.

After dinner, the stage-coach made its appearance, and the passengers began to stow themselves away within it, Oscar mounted the outside, and took a seat with the driver, with whom he was soon on intimate terms.  All things being ready, the horses started, at the familiar “Get up!” and they were on their way toward Brookdale.

The horses did not prove quite so smart as Oscar hoped they would, and the coach was a heavy and hard-riding concern, compared with those he was accustomed to ride upon at home.  But the road was good, though hilly, and the scenery, much of the way, was very pleasant.  The driver, too, was quite talkative, and Oscar being the only outside passenger, enjoyed the full benefit of his communicativeness.  Occasionally they passed through a village, with its rows of neat white houses, its tall church steeple, its bustling store, and its groups of children playing in the streets.  Now and then they stopped a few moments, to leave a passenger, a package, or a mail-bag; for the strong leathern bags, with brass padlocks, which the driver had carefully packed away under his box, contained the United States’ mails for the towns along his route.

As they advanced on their way, the villages became less frequent, the farm houses were more scattering, and the country grew more wild.  Sometimes the road extended for miles through thickly-wooded forests.  Occasionally they would come in sight of a river, and, perhaps, would hear the clatter and whizzing of a saw-mill, or get a glimpse of a raft of logs floating lazily down the stream.  It was about six o’clock when the stage stopped at the post-office of a small settlement, and the driver told Oscar he was going to leave him there.  His seat had grown tiresome, during the last few hours, and he was by no means sorry to leave it.

“Well, Jerry, here I am again,” said Mr. Preston, addressing a boy who stood by.  “How are all the folks at home?”

“They are well,” replied the boy addressed.

“This way Oscar,” said Mr. Preston, pointing to a horse and wagon on the opposite side of the street.  “Oscar, this is your cousin Jerry,” he continued, and the boys shook hands with each other, in acknowledgment of the introduction.