At every house the trail of followers was increased by one or more members, every one believing that something terrible had happened or was about to take place. Hardly looking back, Phil rode straight on toward the depot, old Jim covered with mud and panting for breath. As he came in sight of the low, wooden building the whistle of the approaching train was heard a quarter of a mile away. “I’m in season!” exclaimed Phil, triumphantly. “Come on, you folks, if you want to see the sight of your life!” The oncoming spectators needed no urging to do this, and scarcely had the boyish rider reined up his spent horse by the narrow platform before the foremost of his pursuers, regardless of the slush, ankle deep about the station, rushed upon the scene. Others rapidly added to their numbers. “What is it, Phil?” asked Lon Wiggles, who had outrun all others in reaching the place. Phil and he were close friends. “What has brought you home from Wenham like this?” “I know!” replied Phil, with a knowing toss of his head, as he sprang from old Jim’s back. “I s’posed you did, but that needn’t make a crab of you.” “Excuse me, Lon. I see Deacon Cornhill on the train down at Wenham.” “Is that all?” and looks of disgust and disappointment settled on the features of those near enough to overhear this dialogue. It is needless to say that Phil was maintaining this air of mystery more for their sakes than Lon’s. “Can’t you wait till a feller has time to think? No, it is not all. The deacon is coming home with a carload of New York cattle! But here comes the train; look for yourself. Ladies and gentlemen, Deacon Cornhill is coming home with all of the poor of New York at his heels. See for yourselves,” waving his hand in a tragical manner, as the long train came pounding along the iron rails. With puffs and snorts, as of rage at being stopped in its wild career, the engine came to a standstill just beyond the upper end of the station, so as to bring the two passenger cars nearly opposite the building. With a faint inkling of what they were to expect, the spectators stood looking on with gaping mouths and staring eyes, while the tall, stoop-shouldered figure of Deacon Cornhill appeared on the rear platform. His benevolent features were lighted with an uncommon glow, as he gazed upon the crowd gathered thus unexpectedly about the station. Hesitating but a moment, he stepped down the steps, and then turned to look back. The object of his gaze was soon apparent, for at that moment other passengers were following him from the car. In the lead of these came a tall, rather good-looking, but plainly dressed, boy of seventeen, with pinched features, but flashing eyes, none other than Ragged Rob, ex-bootblack of New York. Leaning on his arm was a middle-aged woman, beyond doubt in the minds of the onlookers his mother. Her countenance was thin and careworn, while her brown hair was thickly streaked with threads of silver.