He took me into his box, where there was a fire, a desk for an official book in which he had to make certain entries, a telegraphic instrument with its dial, face, and needles, and the little bell of which he had spoken.  On my trusting that he would excuse the remark that he had been well educated, and (I hoped I might say without offence) perhaps educated above that station, he observed that instances of slight incongruity in such wise would rarely be found wanting among large bodies of men; that he had heard it was so in workhouses, in the police force, even in that last desperate resource, the army; and that he knew it was so, more or less, in any great railway staff.  He had been, when young (if I could believe it, sitting in that hut,—­he scarcely could), a student of natural philosophy, and had attended lectures; but he had run wild, misused his opportunities, gone down, and never risen again.  He had no complaint to offer about that.  He had made his bed, and he lay upon it.  It was far too late to make another.

All that I have here condensed he said in a quiet manner, with his grave dark regards divided between me and the fire.  He threw in the word, “Sir,” from time to time, and especially when he referred to his youth,—­as though to request me to understand that he claimed to be nothing but what I found him.  He was several times interrupted by the little bell, and had to read off messages, and send replies.  Once he had to stand without the door, and display a flag as a train passed, and make some verbal communication to the driver.  In the discharge of his duties, I observed him to be remarkably exact and vigilant, breaking off his discourse at a syllable, and remaining silent until what he had to do was done.

In a word, I should have set this man down as one of the safest of men to be employed in that capacity, but for the circumstance that while he was speaking to me he twice broke off with a fallen color, turned his face towards the little bell when it did not ring, opened the door of the hut (which was kept shut to exclude the unhealthy damp), and looked out towards the red light near the mouth of the tunnel.  On both of those occasions, he came back to the fire with the inexplicable air upon him which I had remarked, without being able to define, when we were so far asunder.

Said I, when I rose to leave him, “You almost make me think that I have met with a contented man.”

(I am afraid I must acknowledge that I said it to lead him on.)

“I believe I used to be so,” he rejoined, in the low voice in which he had first spoken; “but I am troubled, sir, I am troubled.”

He would have recalled the words if he could.  He had said them, however, and I took them up quickly.

“With what?  What is your trouble?”

“It is very difficult to impart, sir.  It is very, very difficult to speak of.  If ever you make me another visit, I will try to tell you.”