“No!  Eh, that’s mighty cur’ous.  A’most everyone goes somewhere by train nowadays—­there’s such a sight o’ cheap ’scursions.  I know a man wot got up i’ the middle o’ night, ‘e did, an’ more fool ’e!—­ an’ off ’e goes by train down to seaside for the day—­’e’d never seen the sea before an’ it giv’ ’im such a scare as ’e ain’t got over it yet.  ‘E said there was such a sight o’ wobblin’ water that ’e thort it ‘ud wobble off altogether an’ wash away all the land and ’im with it.  Ay, ay! ’e was main scared with ’is cheap ’scursion!”

“I’ve never seen the sea,” said Innocent then, in a low clear tone—­“but I’ve read about it—­and I think I know what it is like.  It is always changing,—­it is full of beautiful colours, blue and green, and grey and violet—­and it has great waves edged with white foam!—­oh yes!—­the poets write about it, and I have often seen it in my dreams.”

The dawning light in the sky deepened—­and the waggoner turned his head to look more closely at his girl-companion.

“Ye talks mighty strange!” he said—­“a’most as if ye’d been eddicated up to it.  I ain’t been eddicated, an’ I’ve no notions above my betters, but ye may be right about the sea—­if ye’ve read about it, though the papers is mostly lies, if ye asks me, telling ye one thing one day an’ another to-morrow—­”

“I don’t read the papers”—­and Innocent smiled a little as in the widening light she began to see the stolid, stupid, but good-natured face of the man—­“I don’t understand them.  I’ve read about the sea in books,—­books of poetry.”

He uttered a sound between a whistle and a grunt.

“Books of poetry!  An’ ye’re goin’ to seek service in Lunnon?  Take my word for’t, my gel, they won’t want any folks there wi’ sort o’ gammon like that in their ‘eds—­they’re all on the make there, an’ they don’t care for nothin’ ‘cept money an’ ’ow to grab it.  I ain’t bin there, but I’ve heerd a good deal.”

“You may have heard wrong,” said Innocent, gathering more courage as she realised that the light was now quite clear enough for him to see her features distinctly and that it was evident he did not know her—­“London is such a large place that there must be all sorts in it—­good as well as bad—­they can’t all be greedy for money.  There must be people who think beautiful things, and do beautiful work—­”

“Oh, there’s plenty o’ work done there”—­and the waggoner flicked his long whip against the sturdy flanks of his labouring horses—­ “I ain’t denyin’ that.  An’ YOU’ll ’ave to work, my gel!—­you bet! you’ll ‘ave to wash down steps an’ sweep kitchens a good while afore you gits into the way of it!  Why not take a service in the country?”

“I’m a little tired of the country,” she answered—­“I’d like a change.”

“An’ a change ye’re likely to git!” he retorted, somewhat gruffly —­“Lor’ bless yer ‘art!  There ain’t nothin’ like the country!  All the trees a-greenin’ an’ the flowers a-blowin’ an’ the birds a-singin’!  ’Ave ye ever ’era tell of a place called Briar Farm?”