She controlled the nervous start of her body, and replied quietly—­

“I think I have.  A very old place.”

“Ah!  Old?  I believe ye!  ‘Twas old in the time o’ good Queen Bess—­ an’ the same fam’ly ’as ’ad it these three ’undred years—­a fam’ly o’ the name o’ Jocelyn.  Ay, if ye could a’ got service wi’ Farmer Jocelyn ye’d a’ bin in luck’s way!  But ‘e’s dead an’ gone last week—­more’s the pity!—­an’ ’is nephew’s got the place now, forbye ’e ain’t a Jocelyn.”

She was silent, affecting not to be interested.  The waggoner went on—­

“That’s the sort o’ place to seek service in!  Safe an’ clean an’ ‘onest as the sunshine—­good work an’ good pay—­a deal better than a place in Lunnon.  An’ country air, my gel!—­country air!—­nuthin’ like it!”

A sudden blaze of gold lit up the trees—­the sun was rising—­full day was disclosed, and the last filmy curtains of the night were withdrawn, showing a heavenly blue sky flecked lightly with wandering trails of white cloud like swansdown.  He pointed eastward with his long whip.

“Look at that!” he said—­“Fine, isn’t it!  No roofs and chimneys—­ just the woods and fields!  Nuthin’ like it anywhere!”

Innocent drew a long breath—­the air was indeed sweet and keen—­ new life seemed given to the world with its exhilarating freshness.  But she made no reply to the enthusiastic comments of her companion.  Thoughts were in her brain too deep for speech.  Not here, not here, in this quiet pastoral scene could she learn the way to wrest the golden circlet of fame from the hands of the silent gods!—­it must be in the turmoil and rush of endeavour—­the swift pursuit of the flying Apollo!  And—­as the slow waggon jogged along—­she felt herself drawn, as it were, by a magnet—­on—­on—­ on!—­on towards a veiled mystery which waited for her—­a mystery which she alone could solve.

Presently they came within sight of several rows of ugly wooden sheds with galvanised iron roofs and short black chimneys.

“A’most there now,” said the waggoner—­“‘Ere’s a bit o’ Lunnon a’ready!—­dirt an’ muck and muddle!  Where man do make a mess o’ things ’e makes a mess all round!  Spoils everything ’e can lay ’is ’ands on!”

The approaches to the railway were certainly not attractive—­no railway approaches ever are.  Perhaps they appear more than usually hideous when built amid a fair green country, where for miles and miles one sees nothing but flowering hedgerows and soft pastures shaded by the graceful foliage of sheltering trees.  Then the shining, slippery iron of the railway running like a knife through the verdant bosom of the land almost hurts the eyes, and the accessories of station-sheds, coal-trucks, and the like, affront the taste like an ill-done foreground in an otherwise pleasing picture.  A slight sense of depression and foreboding came like a cloud over the mind of poor little lonely Innocent, as she alighted at the station at last, and with uplifted wistful eyes tendered a sovereign to the waggoner.