'No, sir--George,' he smiled. 'But any name does; and as for the station, weel, it's good enough in its way. We only tak' up or pit doon by signal. But you'll be English, sir?' 'That's it, George; that's just it. I'm only English. But, so far, I am in luck; because I understand your talk, and I thought everybody here ran about raw, with kilts on and speaking in Scotch.' 'So they do, sir, mostly; but I've been far south myself. No, sir, no left-luggage room here; but if you're going to the inn I'll carry your portmanteau, though ye'll no' find much accommodation there for a gentleman like yourself. Besides, it's the nicht of the fair, and they'll be dancin' and singin' in the road till midnicht.' 'But,' said the stranger, 'I'm bound for Loggiemouth, if I can only find the way. I'm going to a gipsy encampment there--Nat Lee's or Biffins'. You know Nat Lee?' 'Well, and curly-headed Lotty too. But, man, you'll have ill findin' your road over the moor the nicht. It's three good Scotch miles, and your portmanteau's no' a small weight--a hundred and twenty pounds if an ounce.' This young man, with the sunny hair, square shoulders, and bravely chiselled English face, seized the bag with his left hand and held it high above his head, much to the admiration of the honest porter. 'You're a fine lad, sir,' said the latter. 'An English athlete, no doubt. Weel, we all love strength hereabouts, and Loggiemouth itself can boast of bonny men.' 'Here!' cried the stranger abruptly, as he looked to the west and the sun that was sinking like a great blood-orange in the purple mist of the woodlands, 'take that portmanteau, George, in your own charge. I suppose you live somewhere?' 'I'll lock it up in the lamp-room, sir. It'll be safe enough there.' 'Well, thanks; and to-morrow I'll either stride over for it myself or send some one. Now, you'll direct me to the camp, won't you?' 'Ay, ay, sir, and you've a good stick and a stout heart, so nothing can come o'er ye. But what way did nobody meet you, sir?' 'Nat Lee said he would send some one, but--hallo! who is this?' She ran along the platform hurriedly but smiling--a little nervously perhaps, blinking somewhat moreover, for the sun's last beams lit up her face and eke her yellow hair. Her colour seemed to rise as she advanced. Blushing? No. Lotty Lee was barely twelve. 'Oh, please, sir, are you Mr Blake?' 'I am. And you?' 'Me? I'm only Lotty Lee, and that's nobody. But father sent me to meet you, and lead you home to our pitch across the Whinny Moor. You couldn't find the way by yourself, never, never, _never_!' 'Good-night, sir.--Good-night, Miss Lotty,' cried the porter, throwing the portmanteau on his shoulder and marching off with it. 'Well,' said the young fellow, 'I have a sweet little guide anyhow; but are you sure that even you can find the way yourself, Lotty?' 'Oh yes, Mr Blake, please.' Hers was a light, musical, almost bird-like laugh.