Before showing the manner in which the work is performed for the railway companies, it may be well to premise that one great good which the Clearing-House system does to the public, is to enable them to travel everywhere with as much facility as if there were only one railway and one company in the kingdom.

To avoid going too much into detail, we may say, briefly, that in regard to goods, statements of through-traffic despatched are sent daily from thousands of stations to the Clearing-House, also separate statements of through-traffic received. These are compared. Of those that are found to agree, each company is debited or credited, as the case may be, with the proportion due to or by it. Where discrepancies occur, correspondence ensues until the thing is cleared up, and then the distribution to the accounts of the several companies takes place. As discrepancies are numerous and constant, correspondence is necessarily great. So minutely correct and particular are they at the Clearing-House, that a shilling is sometimes divided between four companies. Even a penny is deemed worthy of being debited to one company and credited to another!

As it is with goods, so is it with passengers. Through-tickets are sent from all the stations to the Clearing-House, where they are examined and compared with the returns of the tickets issued, and then sent back to their respective companies. As these tickets amount to many thousands a day, some idea may be formed of the amount of labour bestowed on the examination of them. The proportions of each ticket due to each company are then credited, and statements of the same made out and forwarded to the several companies daily. From the two sets of returns forwarded to the Clearing-House, statements of the debit and credit balances are made out weekly.

Parcels are treated much in the same way as the goods.

"Mileage" is a branch of the service which requires a separate staff of men. There are hundreds of thousands of waggons, loaded and empty, constantly running to and fro, day and night, on various lines, to which they do not belong. Each individual waggon must be traced and accounted for to the Clearing-House, from its start to its arrival and back again; and not only waggons, but even the individual tarpaulins that cover them are watched and noted in this way, in order that the various companies over whose lines they pass may get their due, and that the companies owning them may get their demurrage if they be improperly detained on the way. For this purpose, at every point where separate railways join, there are stationed men in the pay of the Clearing-House, whose duty it is to take the numbers of all passenger carriages and goods, waggons and tarpaulins, and make a daily statement of the same to the Clearing-House.

As daily returns of all "foreign" carriages arriving and departing from all Clearing-House stations are forwarded to the same office, they are thus in a position to check the traffic, detect discrepancies, and finally make the proper entries as to mileage and demurrage in the accounts of the respective companies. Frequently the charge of one-tenth of a penny per mile for a tarpaulin is divided among several companies in various proportions. For a waggon or carriage from Edinburgh to London, mileage and demurrage accounts are sent out by the Clearing-House to four companies. Formerly, before demurrage was introduced, carriages were frequently detained on lines to which they did not belong, for weeks, and even months, until sometimes they were lost sight of altogether!

Once a month the balances are struck, and the various railways, instead of having to pay enormous sums to each other, obtain settlement by means of comparatively small balances.

For example, the London and North-Western railway sends its through passengers over the Caledonian line. The mileage charged for its "foreign" carriages is three farthings per mile. Small though that sum is, it amounts at the end of a month perhaps to 5000 pounds. This little bill is sent to the Clearing-House by the Caledonian against the London and North-Western. But during the same period the latter company has been running up a somewhat similar bill against the former company. Both accounts are sent in to the Clearing-House. They amount together to perhaps some fifteen or twenty thousand pounds, yet when one is set off against the other a ten or twenty pound note may be all that is required to change hands in order to balance the accounts.

The total mileage of lines under the jurisdiction of the Clearing-House, and over which it exercises complete surveillance on every train that passes up or down night or day, as far as regulating the various interests of the companies is concerned, amounts to more than 14,000. The Times, at the conclusion of a very interesting article on this subject, says,—"Our whole railway system would be as nothing without the Clearing-House, which affords another illustration of the great truth that the British railway public is the best served railway public in the world, and, on the whole, the least grateful." We hope and incline to believe that in the latter remark, the great Thunderer is wrong, and that it is only a small, narrow-minded, and ignorant section of the public which is ungrateful.

Disputed claims between railways are referred to the arbitration of the committee of the Clearing-House, from whose decision there is no appeal.

The trouble taken in connexion with the lost-luggage department is very great; written communications being sent to almost innumerable stations on various lines of rails for every inquiry that is made to the House after lost-luggage.

It is a striking commentary at once on the vast extent of traffic in the kingdom, and the great value in one important direction of this establishment, the fact that, in one year, the number of articles accounted for to the Clearing-House by stations as left by passengers, either on the platforms or in carriages, amounted to 156,769 trunks, bags and parcels, and of these nearly ninety-five in every hundred were restored, through the Clearing-House, to their owners. It is probable that the property thus restored would amount to half a million of money.

This reminds us that we left Edwin Gurwood on his way to restore Mrs Tipps her lost ring, and that, therefore, it is our duty to resume the thread of our story, with, of course, a humble apology to the patient reader for having again given way to our irresistible tendency to digress!



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

MRS. TIPPS GOES ON A JOURNEY, AND MEETS A GENTLEMAN WHO, WITH MUCH ASSURANCE, COMMENTS FREELY ON INSURANCE.

On a particular holiday, it was advertised that a great excursion train would start from the Clatterby station at a certain hour. At the appointed time the long line of carriages was pushed up to the platform by our friend John Marrot, who was appointed that day to drive the train.

"Bill," remarked John to his mate, "it'll be a biggish train. There's an uncommon lot o' people on the platform."

"They're pretty thick," replied Will Garvie, wiping his countenance with a piece of waste, which, while it removed the perspiration, left behind a good deal of oil, and streaked his nose with coal-dust. But Will was not particular!

The excursionists were indeed unusually numerous. It chanced to be a fine day, and the platform was densely crowded with human beings, many of whom moved, when movement was possible, in groups, showing that there were various sections that had a common aim and interest, and meant to keep together as much as possible. There were men there who had evidently made up their minds to a thoroughly enjoyable day, and women whose aspect was careworn but cheerful, to whom a holiday was probably a memorable event in the year. Of young people there was of course a considerable sprinkling, and amongst the crowd could be seen a number of individuals whose amused expression of countenance and general aspect bespoke them ordinary travellers, who meant to avail themselves of a "cheap train." All classes and conditions of men, women, and children were hustling each other in a state of great excitement; but the preponderating class was that which is familiarly though not very respectfully styled "the masses."

Mrs Marrot was there too—much against her will—and little Gertie. A sister of the former, who lived about twenty miles from Clatterby, had, a short time before, made her husband a present of a fine fat pugilistic boy, and Mrs M felt constrained to pay her a visit.

John was on the look-out for his wife and child, so was Will Garvie. The former waved a piece of cotton-waste to her when she arrived; she caught sight of him and gave him a cheerful nod in reply; and an unexpressed blessing on his weather-beaten face arose in her heart as Garvie pushed through the crowd and conducted her and Gertie to a carriage.

Timid little Mrs Tipps was also there. It is probable that no power on earth, save that of physical force, could have induced Mrs Tipps to enter an excursion train, for which above all other sorts of trains she entertained a species of solemn horror. But the excitement consequent on the unexpected recovery of the diamond ring, and the still more unexpected accession of wealth consequent thereon, had induced her to smother her dislike to railways for a time, and avail herself of their services in order to run down to a town about twenty miles off for the purpose of telling the good news to Netta, who chanced to be on a short visit to a friend there at the time. When Mrs Tipps reached the station, her ignorance of railway matters, and the confused mental state which was her normal condition, prevented her from observing that the train was an excursion one. She therefore took out a first-class ticket and also an insurance ticket for 500 pounds, for which latter she paid sixpence! Her ignorance and perturbation also prevented her from observing that this rate of insurance was considerably higher than she was accustomed to pay, owing to the fact of the train being an excursion one. If she had been going by an ordinary train, she could have insured 1000 pounds, first-class, for 3 pence; half that sum, second-class, for 2 pence; and 200 pounds, third-class, for the ridiculously small sum of one penny!

Good Mrs Tipps held the opinion so firmly that accident was the usual, and all but inevitable, accompaniment of railway travelling, that she invariably insured her life when compelled to undertake a journey. It was of no avail that her son Joseph pointed out to her that accidents were in reality few and far between, and that they bore an excessively small proportion to the numbers of journeys undertaken annually; Mrs Tipps was not to be moved. In regard to that subject she had, to use one of her late husband's phrases, "nailed her colours to the mast," and could not haul them down even though she would. She therefore, when about to undertake a journey, invariably took out an insurance ticket, as we have said,—and this, solely with a views to Netta's future benefit.

We would not have it supposed that we object, here, to the principle of insuring against accident. On the contrary, we consider that principle to be a wise one, and, in some cases, one that becomes almost a duty.

When Mrs Tipps discovered that Mrs Marrot and Gertie were going by the same train, she was so much delighted at the unlooked-for companionship that she at once entered the third-class, where they sat, and began to make herself comfortable beside them, but presently recollecting that she had a first-class ticket she started up and insisted on Mrs Marrot and Gertie going first-class along with her, saying that she would pay the difference. Mrs Marrot remonstrated, but Mrs Tipps, strong in her natural liberality of spirit which had been rather wildly set free by her recent good fortune, would not be denied.

"You must come with me, Mrs Marrot," she said. "I'm so frightened in railways, you have no idea what a relief it is to me to have any one near me whom I know. I will change your tickets; let me have them, quick; we have no time to lose—there—now, wait till I return. Oh! I forgot your insurance tickets."

"W'y, bless you, ma'am, we never insures."

"You never insure!" exclaimed Mrs Tipps in amazement; "and it only costs you threepence for one thousand pounds."

"Well, I don't know nothink as to that—" said Mrs Marrot.

Before she could finish the sentence Mrs Tipps was gone.

She returned in breathless haste, beckoned Mrs Marrot and Gertie to follow her, and was finally hurried with them into a first-class carriage just as the train began to move.

Their only other companion in the carriage was a stout little old gentleman with a bright complexion, speaking eyes, and a countenance in which benevolence appeared to struggle with enthusiasm for the mastery. He was obviously one of those men who delight in conversation, and he quickly took an opportunity of engaging in it. Observing that Mrs Tipps presented an insurance ticket to each of her companions, he said—

"I am glad to see, madam, that you are so prudent as to insure the lives of your friends."

"I always insure my own life," replied Mrs Tipps with a little smile, "and feel it incumbent on me at least to advise my friends to do the same."

"Quite right, quite right, madam," replied the enthusiastic little man, applying his handkerchief to his bald pate with such energy that it shone like a billiard ball, "quite right, madam. I only wish that the public at large were equally alive to the great value of insurance against accident. W'y, ma'am, it's a duty, a positive duty," (here he addressed himself to Mrs Marrot) "to insure one's life against accident."

"Oh la! sir, is it?" said Mrs Marrot, quite earnestly.

"Yes, it is. Why, look here—this is your child?"

He laid his hand gently on Gertie's head.

"Yes, sir, she is."

"Well, my good woman, suppose that you are a widow and are killed," (Mrs Marrot looked as if she would rather not suppose anything of the sort), "what I ask, what becomes of your child?—Left a beggar; an absolute beggar!"

He looked quite triumphantly at Mrs Tipps and her companions, and waited a few seconds as if to allow the idea to exert its full force on them.

"But, sir," observed Mrs Marrot meekly, "supposin' that there do be an accident," (she shivered a little), "that ticket won't prevent me bein' killed, you know?"

"No, ma'am, no; but it will prevent your sweet daughter from being left a beggar—that is, on the supposition that you are a widow."

"W'ich I ain't sir, I'm happy to say," remarked Mrs Marrot; "but, sir, supposin' we was both of us killed—"

She paused abruptly as if she had committed a sin in merely giving utterance to the idea.

"Why, then, your other children would get the 500 pounds—or your heirs, whoever they may be. It's a splendid system that, of insurance against accident. Just look at me, now." He spread out his hands and displayed himself, looking from one to the other as if he were holding up to admiration something rare and beautiful. "Just look at me. I'm off on a tour of three months through England, Scotland, and Ireland— not for my health, madam, as you may see—but for scientific purposes. Well, what do I do? I go to the Railway Passengers Assurance Company's Office, 64 Cornhill, London, (I like to be particular, you see, as becomes one who professes to be an amateur student of the exact sciences), and I take out what they call a Short Term Policy of Insurance against accidents of all kinds for a thousand pounds—1000 pounds, observe—for which I pay the paltry sum of 30 shillings—1 pound, 10 shillings. Well, what then? Away I go, leaving behind me, with perfect indifference, a wife and two little boys. Remarkable little boys, madam, I assure you. Perfect marvels of health and intelligence, both of 'em—two little boys, madam, which have not been equalled since Cain and Abel were born. Every one says so, with the exception of a few of the cynical and jaundiced among men and women. And, pray, why am I so indifferent? Just because they are provided for. They have a moderately good income secured to them as it is, and the 1000 pounds which I have insured on my life will render it a competence in the event of my being killed. It will add 50 pounds a year to their income, which happens to be the turning-point of comfort. And what of myself? Why, with a perfectly easy conscience, I may go and do what I please. If I get drowned in Loch Katrine—what matter? If I break my neck in the Gap of Dunloe—what matter? If I get lost and frozen on the steeps of Ben Nevis or Goatfell—what matter? If I am crushed to death in a railway accident, or get entangled in machinery and am torn to atoms—still I say, what matter? 1000 pounds must at once be paid down to my widow and children, and all because of the pitiful sum of 30 shillings.

"But suppose," continued the enthusiastic man, deepening his tone as he became more earnest, "suppose that I am not killed, but only severely injured and mangled so as to be utterly unfit to attend to my worldly affairs—what then?"

Mrs Tipps shuddered to think of "what then."

"Why," continued the enthusiastic gentleman, "I shall in that case be allowed from the company 6 pounds a week, until recovered, or, in the event of my sinking under my injuries within three months after the accident, the whole sum of 1000 pounds will be paid to my family."

Mrs Tipps smiled and nodded her head approvingly, but Mrs Marrot still looked dubious.

"But, sir," she said, "supposin' you don't get either hurt or killed?"

"Why then," replied the elderly gentleman, "I'm all right of course, and only 50 shillings out of pocket, which, you must admit, is but a trifling addition to the expenses of a three months' tour. Besides, have I not had three months of an easy mind, and of utter regardlessness as to my life and limbs? Have not my wife and boys had three months of easy minds and indifference to my life and limbs also! Is not all that cheaply purchased at 30 shillings? while the sum itself, I have the satisfaction of knowing, goes to increase the funds of that excellent company which enables you and me and thousands of others to become so easy-minded and reckless, and which, at the same time, pays its fortunate shareholders a handsome dividend."

"Really, sir," said Mrs Tipps, laughing, "you talk so enthusiastically of this Insurance Company that I almost suspect you to be a director of it."

"Madam," replied the elderly gentleman with some severity, "if I were a director of it, which I grieve to say I am not, I should only be doing my simple duty to it and to you in thus urging it on your attention. But I am altogether uninterested in it, except as a philanthropist. I see and feel that it does good to myself and to my fellow-men, therefore I wish my fellow-men to appreciate it more highly than they do, for it not only insures against accident by railway, but against all kinds of accidents; while its arrangements are made to suit the convenience of the public in every possible way."

"Why, madam," he continued, kindling up again and polishing his head violently, "only think, for the small sum of 4 pounds paid annually, it insures that you shall have paid to your family, if you chance to be killed, the sum of 1000 pounds, or, if not killed, 6 pounds a week while you are totally laid up, and 1 pound, 10 shillings a week while you are only partially disabled. And yet, would you believe it, many persons who see the value of this, and begin the wise course of insurance, go on for only a few years and then foolishly give it up—disappointed, I presume, that no accident has happened to them! See, here is one of their pamphlets!"

He pulled a paper out of his pocket energetically, and put on a pair of gold spectacles, through which he looked when consulting the pamphlet, and over which he glanced when observing the effect of what he read on Mrs Tipps.

"What do I find—eh? ha—yes—here it is—a Cornish auctioneer pushed back a window shutter—these are the very words, madam—what more he did to that shutter, or what it did to him, is not told, but he must have come by some damage, because he received 55 pounds. A London clerk got his eye injured by a hair-pin in his daughter's hair—how suggestive that is, madam! what a picture it calls up of a wearied toil-worn man fondling his child of an evening—pressing his cheek to her fair head— and what a commentary it is (he became very stern here) on the use of such barbarous implements as hair-pins! I am not punning, madam; I am much too serious to pun; I should have used the word savage instead of barbarous.

"Now, what was the result? This company gave that clerk compensation to the extent of 26 pounds. Again, a medical practitioner fell through the floor of a room. It must have been a bad, as it certainly was a strange, fall—probably he was heavy and the floor decayed—at all events that fall procured him 120 pounds. A Cardiff agent was bathing his feet—why, we are not told, but imagination is not slow to comprehend the reason, when the severity of our climate is taken into account; he broke the foot-pan—a much less comprehensible thing—and the breaking of that foot-pan did him damage, for which he was compensated with 52 pounds, 16 shillings. Again, a merchant of Birkenhead was paid 20 pounds for playing with his children!"

"Dear me, sir!" exclaimed Mrs Marrot in surprise, "surely—"

"Of course, my good woman," said the elderly gentleman, "you are to understand that he came by some damage while doing so, but I give you the exact words of the pamphlet. It were desirable that a little more information had been given just to gratify our curiosity. Now, these that I have read are under the head of 'Accidents at Home.' Under other 'Heads,' we find a farmer suffocated by the falling in of a sand-pit, for which his representatives received 1000 pounds. Another thousand is paid to the heirs of a poor dyer who fell into a vat of boiling liquor; while, in regard to smaller matters, a warehouseman, whose finger caught in the cog-wheel of a crane, received 30 pounds. And, again, here is 1000 pounds to a gentleman killed in a railway accident, and 100 pounds to a poor woman. The latter had insured for a single trip in an excursion train at a charge of two-pence, while the former had a policy of insurance extending over a considerable period, for which he probably paid twenty or thirty shillings. These are but samples, madam, of the good service rendered to sorrowing humanity by this assurance company, which, you must observe, makes no pretensions to philanthropic aims, but is based simply on business principles. And I find that the total amount of compensation paid in this manner daring one year by this Company amounts to about 72,000 pounds."

As Mrs Marrot yawned at this point and Mrs Tipps appeared somewhat mystified, the enthusiastic gentleman smiled, put away his pamphlet, and wisely changed the subject. He commented on the extreme beauty of the weather, and how fortunate this state of things was for the people who went to the country for a day's enjoyment. Thus pleasantly he whiled away the time, and ingratiated himself with Gertie, until they arrived at the station where Mrs Tipps and Mrs Marrot had to get out, and where many of the excursionists got out along with them. While the former went their several ways, arranging to meet in the evening and return together by the same train, the latter scattered themselves over the neighbouring common and green fields, and, sitting down under the hedgerows among the wild-flowers, pic-nicked in the sunshine, or wandered about the lanes, enjoying the song of birds and scent of flowers, and wishing, perchance, that their lot had been cast among the green pastures of the country, rather than amid the din and smoke and turmoil of the town.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

DETAILS A TERRIBLE ACCIDENT.

In due time that holiday came to a close, and the excursionists returned to the station where their train awaited them. Among the rest came Mrs Tipps and Mrs Marrot, but they did not arrive together, and therefore, much to their annoyance, failed to get into the same carriage.

The weather, which up to that time had kept fine, began to lower, and, just as the train started, a smart thunder-shower fell, but, being under cover, the holiday-makers heeded it not. Upon the whole they were an orderly band of excursionists. Some of the separate groups were teetotallers, and only one or two showed symptoms of having sought to increase their hilarity by the use of stimulants.

When the shower began, John Marrot and his mate put on their pilot-cloth coats, for the screen that formed their only protection from the weather was a thin flat one, without roof or sides, forming only a partial protection from wind and rain.

Night had begun to descend before the train left the station, and as the lowering clouds overspread the sky, the gloom rapidly increased until it became quite dark.

"We are going to have a bad night of it," observed John Marrot as his mate examined the water-gauge.

"Looks like it," was Garvie's curt reply.

The clatter of the engine and howling of the wind, which had by that time risen to a gale, rendered conversation difficult; the two men therefore confined themselves to the few occasional words that were requisite for the proper discharge of their duties. It was not a night on which the thoughts of an engine-driver were likely to wander much. To drive an excursion train in a dark night through a populous country over a line which was crowded with traffic, while the rain beat violently on the little round windows in the screen, obscuring them and rendering it difficult to keep a good look-out was extremely anxious work, which claimed the closest and most undivided attention. Nevertheless, the thoughts of John Marrot did wander a little that night to the carriage behind him in which were his wife and child, but this wandering of thought caused him to redouble rather than to relax his vigilance and caution.

Will Garvie consulted the water-gauge for a moment and then opened the iron door of the furnace in order to throw in more coal. The effect would have stirred the heart of Rembrandt. The instantaneous blinding glare of the intense fire shot through the surrounding darkness, lighting up the two men and the tender as if all were made of red-hot metal; flooding the smoke and steam-clouds overhead with round masses and curling lines of more subdued light, and sending sharp gleams through the murky atmosphere into dark space beyond, where the ghostly landscape appeared to rush wildly by.

Now it chanced that at the part of the line they had reached, a mineral train which preceded them had been thrown off the rails by a bale of goods which had fallen from a previous goods train. Carelessness on the part of those who had loaded the truck, from which the bale had fallen, led to this accident. The driver and fireman of the mineral train were rather severely hurt, and the guard was much shaken as well as excited, so that they neglected to take the proper precaution of sending back one of their number to stop the train that followed them. This would have been a matter of little consequence had the line been worked on the block system, because, in that case, the danger-signal would have been kept up, and would have prevented the excursion train from entering on that portion of the line until it was signalled "clear;" but the block system had been only partially introduced on the line. A sufficient interval of time had been allowed after the mineral train had passed the last station, and then, as we have seen, the excursion train was permitted to proceed. Thus it came to pass that at a part of the line where there was a slight curve and a deep cutting, John Marrot looking anxiously through his circular window, saw the red tail-light of the mineral train.

Instantly he cried, "Clap on the brakes, Bill!"

Almost at the same moment he reversed the engine and opened the whistle to alarm the guard, who applied his brakes in violent haste. But it was too late. The speed could not be checked in time. The rails were slippery, owing to rain. Almost at full speed they dashed into the mineral train with a noise like thunder. The result was appalling. The engine was smashed and twisted in a manner that is quite indescribable, and the tender was turned completely over, while the driver and fireman were shot as if from a cannon's mouth, high into the air. The first two carriages of the passenger-train, and the last van of the mineral, were completely wrecked; and over these the remaining carriages of the passenger-train were piled until they reached an incredible height. The guard's van was raised high in the air, with its ends resting on a third-class carriage, which at one end was completely smashed in by the van.

At the time of the concussion—just after the terrible crash—there was a brief, strange, unearthly silence. All was still for a few seconds, and passengers who were uninjured gazed at each other in mute and horrified amazement. But death in that moment had passed upon many, while others were fearfully mangled. The silence was almost immediately broken by the cries and groans of the wounded. Some had been forcibly thrown out of the carriages, others had their legs and arms broken, and some were jammed into fixed positions from which death alone relieved them. The scenes that followed were heart-rending. Those who were uninjured, or only slightly hurt, lent willing aid to extricate their less fortunate fellow-travellers, but the howling of the wind, the deluging rain, and the darkness of the night, retarded their efforts, and in many cases rendered them unavailing.

John Marrot, who, as we have said, was shot high into the air, fell by good fortune into a large bush. He was stunned at first, but otherwise uninjured. On regaining consciousness, the first thoughts that flashed across him were his wife and child. Rising in haste he made his way towards the engine, which was conspicuous not only by its own fire, but by reason of several other fires which had been kindled in various places to throw light on the scene. In the wreck and confusion, it was difficult to find out the carriage, in which Mrs Marrot had travelled, and the people about were too much excited to give very coherent answers to questions. John, therefore, made his way to a knot of people who appeared to be tearing up the debris at a particular spot. He found Joe Turner, the guard, there, with his head bandaged and his face covered with blood.

"I've bin lookin' for 'ee everywhere, John," said Joe. "She's there!" he added, pointing to a mass of broken timbers which belonged to a carriage, on the top of which the guard's van had been thrown, crushing it almost flat.

John did not require to ask the meaning of his words. The guard's look was sufficiently significant. He said not a word, but the deadly pallor of his countenance showed how much he felt. Springing at once on the broken carriage, and seizing an axe from the hand of a man who appeared exhausted by his efforts, he began to cut through the planking so as to get at the interior. At intervals a half-stifled voice was heard crying piteously for "John."

"Keep up heart, lass!" said John, in his deep, strong voice. "I'll get thee out before long—God helping me."

Those who stood by lent their best aid, but anxious though they were about the fate of those who lay buried beneath that pile of rubbish, they could not help casting an occasional look of wonder, amounting almost to awe, on the tall form of the engine-driver, as he cut through and tore up the planks and beams with a power that seemed little short of miraculous.

Presently he stopped and listened intently for a moment, while the perspiration rolled in big drops from his brow.

"Dost hear me, Mary?" he asked in a deeply anxious tone.

If any reply were uttered it was drowned by the howling of the wind and the noise of the workmen.

Again he repeated the question in an agonising cry.

His wife did not reply, but Gertie's sweet little voice was heard saying faintly—

"I think mother is dead. Oh, take us out, dear father, take us out,— quick!"

Again John Marrot bowed himself to the task, and exerting his colossal strength to the utmost, continued to tear up and cast aside the broken planks and beams. The people around him, now thoroughly aroused to the importance of haste, worked with all their might, and, ere long, they reached the floor of the carriage, where they found mother and child jammed into a corner and arched over by a huge mass of broken timber.

It was this mass that saved them, for the rest of the carriage had been literally crushed into splinters.

Close beside them was discovered the headless trunk of a young man, and the dead body of a girl who had been his companion that day.

Gertie was the first taken out. Her tender little frame seemed to have yielded to the pressure and thus escaped, for, excepting a scratch or two, she was uninjured.

John Marrot did not pause to indulge in any expression of feeling. He sternly handed her to the bystanders, and went on powerfully but carefully removing the broken timbers and planks, until he succeeded in releasing his wife. Then he raised her in his arms, staggered with her to the neighbouring bank and laid her down.

Poor Mrs Marrot was crushed and bruised terribly. Her clothes were torn, and her face was so covered with blood and dust as to be quite unrecognisable at first. John said not a word, but went down on his knees and began carefully to wipe away the blood from her features, in which act he was assisted by the drenching rain. Sad though his case was, there was no one left to help him. The cries of the unfortunate sufferers still unextricated, drew every one else away the moment the poor woman had been released.

Ere long the whole scene of the catastrophe was brilliantly illuminated by the numerous fires which were kindled out of the debris, to serve as torches to those who laboured might and main for the deliverance of the injured. Troops of people from the surrounding district quickly made their appearance on the scene, and while some of these lent effective aid in the work of rescue, others brought blankets, water, and spirits, to cover and comfort those who stood so much in need of help. As the wounded were got out, and laid upon the banks of the line, several surgeons busied themselves in examining and binding their wounds, and the spot bore some resemblance to a battle-field after the tide of war had passed over it. Seventeen dead and one hundred and fifty injured already lay upon the wet ground, while many of the living, who went about with blanched, solemn faces, yet with earnest helpful energy, were bruised and cut badly enough to have warranted their retiring from the spot, and having their own cases considered. Meanwhile a telegram had been sent to Clatterby, and, in a short time, a special train arrived with several of the chief men of the line, and a gang of a hundred surface-men to clear away the wreck and remove the dead and injured.

Many of those unhurt had made singularly narrow escapes. One man was seated in a third-class carriage when the concussion took place. The side of the carriage fell out, and he slid down on the rails just as the other carriages and vans piled up on the place he had left, killing or wounding all his fellow-travellers. Beneath the rubbish next the tender, a mother and child were buried and several others. All were dead save the mother and child when the men began to dig them out and before they succeeded in their labours the mother had died also, but the child survived. In another carriage, or rather under it, a lad was seen lying with a woman's head crushed down on his breast and an infant beside her. They had to saw the carriage asunder before these could be extricated. The woman died almost immediately on being released, but the lad and infant were uninjured. Elsewhere a young girl, who had attracted attention by the sweet expression of her face, had been strangled, and her face rendered perfectly black. In another case the surface-men attempted to extricate a woman, by sawing the broken carriage, under which she lay, but the more they sawed the more did the splinters appear to cling round her, and when at last they got her out she was dead, while another passenger in the same carnage escaped without a scratch.

We would not prolong a painful description which may, perhaps, be thought too long already—yet within certain limits it is right that men should know what their fellows suffer. After all the passengers had been removed to the special train—the dead into vans and horse-boxes and the living into carriages—the surface-men set to work to clear the line.

Poor Mrs Tipps was among the rescued, and, along with the others, was sent on to the Clatterby station by the special train.

While the people were being placed in this train, John Marrot observed Edwin Gurwood in the crowd. He chanced to be at Clatterby when the telegram of the accident arrived, and ran down in the special train to render assistance.

"I'm glad to see you, sir," he said in a low, earnest voice. "My mate, Bill Garvie, must be badly hurt, for he's nowhere to be found. He must be under the wreck somewheres. I wouldn't leave the spot till I found him in or'nary circumstances; but my Mary—"

He stopped abruptly.

"I hope Mrs Marrot is not hurt?" said Edwin anxiously.

John could not reply at first. He shook his head and pointed to a carriage near at hand.

"She's there, sir, with Gertie."

"Gertie!" exclaimed Edwin.

"Ay, poor thing, Gertie is all right, thank the good Lord for that; but—"

Again he stopped, then with an effort continued—

"I couldn't quit them, you know, till I've got 'em safe home. But my mind will be easy, Mr Gurwood, if you'll look after Bill. We was both throw'd a good way from the ingine, but I couldn't rightly say where. You'll not refuse—"

"My dear Marrot," said Edwin, interrupting him, and grasping his hand, "you may rely on me. I shall not leave the ground until he is found and cared for."

"Thank 'ee, sir, thank 'ee," said John, in something of his wonted hearty tone, as he returned Edwin's squeeze of the hand, and hastened to the train, which was just ready to start.

Edwin went at once to the spot where the surface-men were toiling at the wreck in the fitful light of the fires, which flared wildly in the storm and, as they had by that time gathered intense heat, bid defiance to the rain. There were several passengers, who had just been extricated, lying on the ground, some motionless, as if dead, others talking incoherently. These he looked at in passing, but Garvie was not among them. Leaving them under the care of the surgeons, who did all that was possible in the circumstances for their relief, he ran and joined the surface-men in removing the broken timbers of a carriage, from beneath which groans were heard. With some difficulty a woman was extricated and laid tenderly on the bank. Just then Edwin observed a guard, with whom he was acquainted, and asked him if the fireman had yet been found.

"Not yet sir, I believe," said the man. "They say that he and the driver were flung to one side of the line."

Edwin went towards the engine, and, judging the probable direction and distance to which a man might be thrown in such an accident, went to a certain spot and sought carefully around it in all directions. For some time he sought in vain, and was on the point of giving up in despair, when he observed a cap lying on the ground. Going up to it, he saw the form of a man half-concealed by a mass of rubbish. He stooped, and, raising the head a little, tried to make out the features, but the light of the fires did not penetrate to the spot. He laid him gently down again, and was about to hasten away for assistance when the man groaned and said faintly, "Is that you, Jack?"

"No, my poor fellow," said Edwin, stooping down. "Are you badly hurt? I am just going to fetch help to—"

"Mr Gurwood," said the man, interrupting, "you don't seem to know me! I'm Garvie, the fireman. Where am I? Surely there is something wrong with my left arm. Oh! I remember now. Is Jack safe? And the Missis and Gertie? Are they—"

"Don't exert yourself," interrupted Edwin, as Will attempted to rise. "You must keep quiet until I fetch a doctor. Perhaps you're not much hurt, but it is well to be careful. Will you promise me to be still?"

"All right sir," said Will, promptly.

Edwin hastened for assistance, and in a short time the fireman was carried to a place of comparative shelter and his wounds examined.

Almost immediately after the examination Edwin knelt at his side, and signed to those around him to retire.

"Garvie," he said, in a low kind voice, "I'm sorry to tell you that the doctors say you must lose your left arm."

Will looked intently in Edwin's face.

"Is there no chance of savin' it?" he asked earnestly; "it might never be much to speak of, sir, but I'd rather run some risk than lose it."

Edwin shook his head. "No," he said sadly, "they tell me amputation must be immediate, else your life may be sacrificed. I said I would like to break it to you, but it is necessary, my poor fellow, that you should make up your mind at once."

"God's will be done," said Will in a low voice; "I'm ready, sir."

The circumstances did not admit of delay. In a few minutes the fireman's left arm was amputated above the elbow, the stump dressed, and himself laid in as sheltered a position as possible to await the return of the train that was to convey the dead and wounded, more recently extricated, to Clatterby.

When that train arrived at the station it was touching to witness the pale anxious faces that crowded the platform as the doors were opened and the dead and sufferers carried out; and to hear the cries of agony when the dead were recognised, and the cries of grief, strangely, almost unnaturally, mingled with joy, when some who were supposed to have been killed were carried out alive. Some were seen almost fondling the dead with a mixture of tender love and abject despair. Others bent over them with a strange stare of apparent insensibility, or looked round on the pitying bystanders inquiringly, as if they would say, "Surely, surely, this cannot be true." The sensibilities of some were stunned, so that they moved calmly about and gave directions in a quiet solemn voice, as if the great agony of grief were long past, though it was painfully evident that it had not yet begun, because the truth had not yet been realised.

Among those who were calm and collected, though heart-stricken and deadly pale, was Loo Marrot. She had been sent to the station by her father to await the arrival of the train, with orders to bring Will Garvie home. When Will was carried out and laid on the platform alive, an irresistible gush of feeling overpowered her. She did not give way to noisy demonstration, as too many did, but knelt hastily down, raised his head on her knee, and kissed his face passionately.

"Bless you, my darling," said Will, in a low thrilling voice, in which intense feeling struggled with the desire to make light of his misfortune; "God has sent a cordial that the doctors haven't got to give."

"O William!" exclaimed Loo, removing the hair from his forehead—but Loo could say no more.

"Tell me, darling," said Garvie, in an anxious tone, "is father safe, and mother, and Gertie?"

"Father is safe, thank God," replied Loo, with a choking voice, "and Gertie also, but mother—"

"She is not dead?" exclaimed the fireman.

"No, not dead, but very very much hurt. The doctors fear she may not survive it, Will."

No more was said, for at that moment four porters came up with a stretcher and placed Garvie gently upon it. Loo covered him with her shawl, a piece of tarpaulin was thrown over all, and thus he was slowly borne away to John Marrot's home.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

RESULTS OF THE ACCIDENT.

Years passed away—as years inevitably must—and many important changes took place in the circumstances and the management of the Grand National Trunk Railway, but the results of that terrible accident did not quickly pass away. As we have said, it cost Will Garvie an arm, and nearly cost Mrs Marrot her life. We have much pleasure, however, in recording, that it did not make the full charge in this matter. A small, a very small modicum of life was left in that estimable woman, and on the strength of that, with her wonted vigour of character and invincibility of purpose, she set to work to draw out, as it were, a new lease of life. She succeeded to admiration, so much so, in fact, that but for one or two scars on her countenance, no one could have known that she had come by an accident at all. Bob Marrot was wont to say of her, in after years, that, "if it had bin his mother who had lost an arm instead of Will Garvie, he was convinced that her firmness, amountin' a'most to obstinacy, of purpose, would have enabled her to grow on a noo arm as good as the old 'un, if not better." We need scarcely add that Bob was an irreverent scamp!

Poor Will Garvie! his was a sad loss, yet, strange to say, he rejoiced over it. "W'y, you see," he used to say to Bob Marrot—Bob and he being great and confidential friends—"you see, Bob, if it hadn't bin for that accident, I never would have bin laid up and brought so low—so very nigh to the grave—and I would never have know'd what it was to be nursed by your sister too; and so my eyes might have never bin opened to half her goodness an' tenderness, d'ye see? No, Bob, I don't grudge havin' had my eyes opened by the loss of an arm; it was done cheap at the price. Of course I know Loo pretty well by this time, for a few years of married life is apt to clear a good deal of dust out of one's eyes, but I do assure you, Bob, that I never could have know'd her properly but for that accident, which was the luckiest thing that ever happened to me; an' then, don't 'ee see, I'm just as able to work these there points with one arm as with two."

To which Bob would reply,—"You're a queer fish, Bill; howsever, every man's got a right to his own opinions."

Will Garvie was a pointsman now. On recovering from his prolonged illness, during which he had been supported out of the Provident Fund of the railway—to which he and all the other men on the line contributed— he was put to light work at first at the station of Clatterby. By degrees his strength returned, and he displayed so much intelligence, and such calmness of nerve and coolness of courage, that he was made a pointsman at the station, and had a sentry-box sort of erection, with windows all round it, apportioned to his daily use. There he was continually employed in shifting the points for the shunting of trains, none of which dared to move, despite their mighty power and impatience, until Will Garvie gave them leave.

To John Marrot, the accident although not severe at first, had proved more damaging in the long-run. No bones had been broken, or limbs lost, but John had received a shake so bad that he did not resume his duties with the same vigour as heretofore. He continued to stick to his post, however, for several years, and, before giving it up, had the pleasure of training his son Bob in the situation which Garvie had been obliged to resign. Bob's heart you see, had been all along set on driving the Lightning; he therefore gladly left the "Works" when old enough,—and when the opportunity offered,—to fill the preliminary post of fireman.

During this period Edwin Gurwood rose to a responsible and sufficiently lucrative situation in the Clearing-House. At the same time he employed much of his leisure in cultivating the art of painting, of which he was passionately fond. At first he painted for pleasure, but he soon found, on exhibiting one or two of his works, that picture-dealers were willing to purchase from him. He therefore began to paint for profit, and succeeded so well that he began to save and lay by money, with a view to that wife with the nut-brown hair and the large lustrous eyes, who haunted his dreams by night and became his guiding-star by day.

Seeing him thus wholly immersed in the acquisition of money, and not knowing his motive, his faithful little friend Joe Tipps one day amazed, and half-offended him, by reminding him that he had a soul to be cared for as well as a body. The arrow was tenderly shot, and with a trembling hand, but Joe prayed that it might be sent home, and it was. From that date Edwin could not rest. He reviewed his life. He reflected that everything he possessed, or hoped for, came to him, or was to come, from God; yet as far as he could make out he saw no evidence of the existence of religion in himself save in the one fact that he went regularly to church on Sundays. He resolved to turn over a new leaf. Tried—and failed. He was perplexed, for he had tried honestly.

"Tipps," he said, one day, "you are the only man I ever could make a confidant of. To say truth I'm not given to being very communicative as to personal matters at any time, but I must tell you that the remark you made about my soul the other day has stuck to me, and I have tried to lead a Christian life, but without much success."

"Perhaps," said Tipps, timidly, "it is because you have not yet become a Christian."

"My dear fellow!" exclaimed Edwin, "is not leading a Christian life becoming a Christian?"

"Don't you think," said Tipps, in an apologetic tone, "that leading a Christian life is rather the result of having become a Christian? It seems to me that you have been taking the plan of putting yourself and your doings first, and our Saviour last."

We need not prolong a conversation referring to the "old, old story," which ran very much in the usual groove. Suffice it to say that Edwin at last carefully consulted the Bible as to the plan of redemption; and, in believing, found that rest of spirit which he had failed to work out. Thenceforward he had a higher motive for labouring at his daily toil, yet the old motive did not lose but rather gained in power by the change—whereby he realised the truth that, "godliness is profitable for the life that now is as well as that which is to come."

At last the painting became so successful that Edwin resolved to trust to it alone—said good-bye to the Clearing-House with regret—for he left many a pleasant companion and several intimate friends behind him— and went to Clatterby, in the suburbs of which he took and furnished a small villa.

Then it was that he came to the conclusion that the time had arrived to make a pointed appeal to the nut-brown hair and lustrous eyes. He went off and called at Captain Lee's house accordingly. The captain was out—Miss Lee was at home. Edwin entered the house, but he left all his native courage and self-possession on the doorstep outside!

Being ushered into the drawing-room he found Emma reading. From that moment—to his own surprise, and according to his own statement—he became an ass! The metamorphosis was complete. Ovid, had he been alive, would have rejoiced in it! He blushed more than a poor boy caught in his first grievous offence. The very straightforwardness of his character helped to make him worse. He felt, in all its importance, the momentous character of the step he was about to take, and he felt in all its strength the love with which his heart was full, and the inestimable value of the prize at which he aimed. No wonder that he was overwhelmed.

The reader will observe that we have not attempted to dilate in this book on the value of that prize. Emma, like many other good people, is only incidental to our subject. We have been obliged to leave her to the reader's imagination. After all, what better could we have done? Imagination is more powerful in this matter than description. Neither one nor other could, we felt, approach the reality, therefore imagination was best.

"Emma!" he said, sitting down on the sofa beside her, and seizing her hand in both of his.

"Mr Gurwood!" she exclaimed in some alarm.

Beginning, from the mere force of habit, some half-delirious reference to the weather, Edwin suddenly stopped, passed his fingers wildly through his hair, and again said, with deep earnestness,—"Emma."

Emma looked down, blushed, and said nothing.

"Emma," he said again, "my good angel, my guiding-star—by night and by day—for years I have—"

At that moment Captain Lee entered the room.

Edwin leaped up and stood erect. Emma buried her face in the sofa cushions.

"Edwin—Mr Gurwood!" exclaimed Captain Lee.

This was the beginning of a conversation which terminated eventually in the transference of the nut-brown hair and lustrous eyes to the artist's villa in Clatterby. As there was a good garden round the villa, and the wife with nut-brown hair was uncommonly fond of flowers, Edwin looked out for a gardener. It was at this identical time that John Marrot resolved to resign his situation as engine-driver on the Grand National Trunk Railway. Edwin, knowing that he had imbibed a considerable amount of knowledge of gardening from Loo, at once offered to employ him as his gardener; John gladly closed with the offer, and thus it came about that he and his wife removed to the villa and left their old railway-ridden cottage in possession of Will and Loo—or, to be more correct, Mr and Mrs Garvie, and all the young Garvies.

But what of timid Mrs Tipps? The great accident did little for her beyond shaking her nervous system, and confirming her in the belief that railways were unutterably detestable; that she was not quite sure whether or not they were sinful; that, come what might, she never would enter one again; and that she felt convinced she had been born a hundred years too late, in which latter opinion most of her friends agreed with her, although they were glad, considering her loveable disposition, that the mistake had occurred. Netta did not take quite such an extreme view, and Joseph laughed at and quizzed them both, in an amiable sort of fashion, on their views.

Among all the sufferers by that accident few suffered so severely—with the exception: of course, of those who lost their lives—as the Grand National Trunk Railway itself. In the course of the trials that followed, it was clearly shown that the company had run the train much more with the view of gratifying the public than of enriching their coffers, from the fact that the utmost possible sum which they could hope to draw by it was 17 pounds, for which sum they had carried 600 passengers upwards of twenty miles. The accident took place in consequence of circumstances over which the company had no control, and the results were—that twenty persons were killed and about two hundred wounded! that one hundred and sixty claims were made for compensation— one hundred and forty of which, being deemed exorbitant or fraudulent, were defended in court; and that, eventually, the company had to pay from seventy to eighty thousand pounds! out of which the highest sum paid to one individual was 6750 pounds! The risks that are thus run by railway companies will be seen to be excessive, especially when it is considered that excursion trains afford but slight remuneration, while many of them convey enormous numbers of passengers. On the occasion of the first excursion from Oxford to London, in 1851, fifty-two of the broad-gauge carriages of the Great Western were employed, and the excursionists numbered upwards of three thousand five hundred—a very town on wheels! Truly the risks of railway companies are great, and their punishments severe.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

THE LAST.

A certain Christmas-day approached. On the morning of the day preceding, Will Garvie—looking as broad and sturdy as ever; a perfect man, but for the empty sleeve—stood at his post near his sentry-box. His duties that day were severe. At that season of the year there is a great increase of traffic on all railways, and you may be sure that the Grand National Trunk Railway had its full share.

On ordinary occasions about three hundred trains passed Will Garvie's box, out and in, during the twelve hours, but that day there had been nearly double the number of passengers, and a considerable increase in the number of trains that conveyed them, while goods trains had also increased greatly in bulk and in numbers.

Garvie's box abutted on a bridge, and stood in the very midst of a labyrinth of intricate crossing lines, over which trains and pilot-engines were constantly rushing and hissing, backing and whistling viciously, and in the midst of which, Will moved at the continual risk of his life, as cool as a cucumber (so Bob Garvie expressed it), and as safe as the bank.

Although thus situated in the midst of smoke, noise, dust, iron, and steam, Will Garvie managed to indulge his love for flowers. He had a garden on the line—between the very rails! It was not large, to be sure, only about six feet by two—but it was large enough for his limited desires. The garden was in a wooden trough in front of his sentry-box. It contained mignonette, roses, and heart's-ease among other things, and every time that Will passed out of or into his box in performing the duties connected with the station, he took a look at the flowers and thought of Loo and the innumerable boys, girls, and babies at home. We need not say that this garden was beautifully kept. Whatever Will did he did well—probably because he tended well the garden of his own soul.

While he was standing outside his box during one of the brief intervals between trains, an extremely beautiful girl came on the platform and called across the rails to him.

"Hallo! Gertie—what brings you here?" he asked, with a look of glad surprise.

"To see you," replied Gertie, with a smile that was nothing short of bewitching.

"How I wish you were a flower, that I might plant you in my garden," said the gallant William, as he crossed the rails and reached up to shake Gertie's hand.

"What a greedy man you are!" said Gertie. "Isn't Loo enough for you?"

"Quite enough," replied Will, "I might almost say more than enough at times; but come, lass, this ain't the place for a palaver. You came to speak with me as well as to see me, no doubt."

"Yes, Will, I came with a message from Mrs Tipps. You know that the railway men are going to present father with a testimonial to-night; well, Mrs Tipps thinks that her drawing-room won't be large enough, so she sent me to ask you to let the men know that it is to be presented in the schoolroom, where the volunteer rifle band is to perform and make a sort of concert of it."

"Indeed!" said Will.

"Yes; and Mrs Tipps says that Captain Lee is going to give them what she calls a cold collation, and brother Bob calls a blow-out."

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Will.

"Yes, I do; won't it be delightful?" said Gertie.

"Splendid," replied Will, "I'll be sure to be up in good time. But, I say, Gertie, is young Dorkin to be there?"

Gertie blushed, but was spared the necessity of a reply in consequence of a deafening whistle which called Will Garvie to his points. Next moment, a passenger-train intervened, and cut her off from further communication.

According to promise, Will was at the schoolroom in good time that evening, with some thirty or forty of his comrades. Loo was there too, blooming and matronly, with a troop of boys and girls, who seemed to constitute themselves a body-guard round John Marrot and his wife, who were both ignorant at that time of the honour that was about to be done them. John was as grave, sturdy, and amiable as ever, the only alteration in his appearance being the increased number of silver locks that mingled with his black hair. Time had done little to Mrs Marrot, beyond increasing her bulk and the rosiness of her countenance.

It would be tedious to comment on all our old friends who assembled in the schoolroom on that memorable occasion. We can only mention the names of Captain Lee (alias Samuel Tough), and Mr Abel, and Mrs Tipps, and Dr Noble, and Mr Sharp, and David Blunt, and Joe Turner, and Mrs Durby, with all of whom time seemed to have dealt as leniently as with John Marrot and his wife. Sam Natly was also there, with his invalid wife restored to robust health, and supported on either side by a blooming boy and girl. And Edwin Gurwood was there with his wife and son and three daughters; and so was Joseph Tipps, looking as if the world prospered with him, as, indeed, was the case. And, of course, Netta Tipps was there, and the young curate, who, by the way, was much stouter and not nearly so stiff as when we first met him. He was particularly attentive to Netta, and called her "my dear," in a cool free-and-easy way, that would not have been tolerated for a moment, but for the fact that they had been married for the last three months. Bob Marrot was there also—as strapping a young blade as one could wish to see, with a modest yet fearless look in his eye, that was quite in keeping with his occupation as driver of the "Flying Dutchman."

There was there, also, a tall, slim, good-looking youth, who seemed to be on very intimate terms with Bob Marrot. He was well-known as one of the most rising men at the Clatterby works, who bade fair to become an overseer ere long. Bob called him Tomtit, but the men of the line styled him Mister Dorkin. He had brought with him an extremely wrinkled, dried-up old woman, who appeared to have suffered much, and to have been dragged out of the lowest depths of poverty. To judge from appearances she had been placed in a position of great comfort. Such was in truth the case, and the fine young fellow who had dragged her out and up was that same Mister Dorkin, who may be said to have been all but stone-blind that evening, because, from first to last, he saw but one individual there, and that individual was Gertie. He was almost deaf too, because he heard only one voice—and that voice was Gertie's.

And Nanny Stocks was there, with "the baby," but not the baby Marrot! That baby—now a stout well-grown lad—was seated beside his mother, paying her all sorts of delicate attentions, such as picking up her handkerchief when she dropped it, pushing her bonnet on her head when, in her agitation, it fell back on her neck, and beating her firmly on the back when she choked, as she frequently did that evening from sheer delight. No doubt in this last operation he felt that he was paying off old scores, for many a severe beating on the back had Mrs Marrot given him in the stormy days of his babyhood.

The baby of whom Nanny Stocks was now the guardian was baby Gurwood, and a strong resemblance it bore to the old baby in the matters of health, strength, fatness, and self-will. Miss Stocks was one of those human evergreens which years appear to make no impression on at all. From her shoe-latchet to her topmost hair-pin she was unalterably the same as she had been in days gone by. She treated the new baby, too, as she had treated the old—choked it with sweetmeats and kisses, and acted the part of buffer to its feet and fists.

It would take a volume to give the full details of all that was said and done, and played and sung, on that Christmas-eve. We can only touch on these things. The brass band of the volunteers surpassed itself. The songs—volunteered or called for—were as good as songs usually are on festive occasions, a few of them being first-rate, especially one which was sung by a huge engine-driver, with shoulders about a yard broad, and a beard like the inverted shako of a guardsman. It ran thus—

SONG OF THE ENGINE-DRIVER.

Oh—down by the river and close by the lake We skim like the swallow and cut though the brake; Over the mountain and round by the lea, Though the black tunnel and down to the sea. Clatter and bang by the wild riven shore, We mingle our shriek with the ocean's roar. We strain and we struggle, we rush and we fly— We're a terrible pair, my steed and I.

Chorus—Whistle and puff the whole day round, Over the hills and underground. Rattling fast and rattling free— Oh! a life on the line is the life for me.

With our hearts a-blazing in every chink, With coals for food and water to drink, We plunge up the mountain and traverse the moor, And startle the grouse in our daily tour. We yell at the deer in their lonely glen, Shoot past the village and circle the Ben, We flash through the city on viaducts high, As straight as an arrow, my steed and I.

Chorus—Whistle and puff, etcetera.

The Norseman of old, when quaffing his mead, Delighted to boast of his "ocean steed;" The British tar, in his foaming beer, Drinks to his ship as his mistress dear. The war-horse good is the trooper's theme— But what are all these to the horse of steam? Such a riotous, rollicking roadster is he— Oh!—the Iron Horse is the steed for me!

Chorus—Whistle and puff, etcetera.

The collation also, or, according to Bob Marrot, the "blow-out," was superb. Joseph Tipps declared it to be eminently satisfactory, and the men of the line evidently held the same opinion, if we may judge from the fact that they consumed it all, and left not a scrap behind.

The speeches, also, were excellent. Of course the great one of the evening was the best being, delivered by Mr Abel, who not unnaturally made a remarkably able oration.

When that gentleman rose with a beautiful silver model of a locomotive in his hand, which he had been deputed by the men of the line to present as a mark of their regard, admiration, and esteem, to John Marrot, he took the worthy ex-engine-driver very much by surprise, and caused Mrs Marrot to be seized with such a fit of choking that the baby (not the new one, but the old) found it as hard work to beat her out of it, as she had formerly found it to beat him out of a fit of wickedness. When she had been restored, Mr Abel launched off into a glowing oration, in the course of which he referred to John Marrot's long services, to his faithful and unwearied attention to his arduous duties, and to the numerous instances wherein he had shown personal courage and daring, amounting almost to heroism, in saving the lives of comrades in danger, and in preventing accidents on the line by coolness and presence of mind.

"In conclusion," said Mr Abel, winding up, "let me remark that the gift which is now presented might have been of a more useful character, but could not have been more appropriate; because the wish of those who desire to testify their regard for you this evening, Mr Marrot, is not to give you an intrinsically valuable or useful present, but to present you with a characteristic ornament which may grace your dwelling while you live, and descend, after you are gone, to your children's children (here he glanced at Loo and her troop), to bear witness to them that you nobly did your duty in driving that great iron horse, whereof this little silver pony is a model and a memorial. To perform one's duty well in this life is the highest ambition that any man can have in regard to temporal things. Nelson, our greatest naval hero, aimed at it, and, on the glorious day of Trafalgar, signalled that England expected every man to do it. Wellington, our greatest soldier, made duty his guiding-star. The effectual and earnest performance of duty stamps with a nobility which is not confined to great men—a nobility which kings can neither give nor take away—a nobility which is very, very difficult to attain unto, but which is open alike to the prince and the peasant, and must be wrought hard for and won—or lost with shame,—for, as the poet happily puts it—

"'Honour and shame from no condition rise; Act well your part,—there all the honour lies.'

"For myself I can only say that John Marrot has won this nobility, and I couple his name with a sentiment with which all here, I doubt not, will heartily sympathise.—Prosperity to the men of the line, and success to the Iron Horse!"

Reader, we can do no better than echo that sentiment, and wish you a kind farewell.

THE END.