"Is it long since you have had an accident before?" asked Wilton, not very well knowing how to proceed in compliance with a little private imperative nod from the fair inquisitor. The question was opportune, for it launched the station-master upon quite a flood of memories into which he rushed and talked for good ten minutes without intermission. How long he would have continued it is impossible to say, but one of the porters came to call him, as there was a telegraph from ----. Wilton followed to hear the news, and returned, after a short absence, with the intelligence that the expected train would not arrive for another hour. "That is long," replied the young lady, scarce lifting her head; then, as Wilton, a little mortified by her tone, turned to leave the room, she exclaimed, still looking down, "Stay one moment, if not inconvenient." "Certainly," and Wilton stood still for another minute or two. "There," she said, holding out the book, "is that like him?" Wilton took it and uttered an exclamation of surprise. On the page before him was a bold, rapid, admirable sketch of the station-master; all the characteristic lines and puckers were there, but slightly idealized. "This is first-rate! You are quite an artist." "I wish I was! Let me touch it a little more. What a capital face it is--so rugged, so humorous--yet so English; not the least bit picturesque. I shall work this into something some day." "Then I am right in supposing you an artist? May I look again?" said Wilton, sitting down beside her. "Oh, yes; you may look at my scratchings. This is my note-book. I like to draw everything--but, you see, most imperfectly." "I do not, indeed. I know very little of art, though I can sketch roughly--merely professional work--but you seem to me to have both genius and skill." "Some taste, scarce any skill." There was something quite genuine in her tone--not the least tinge of mock-modesty--as she turned over the pages, and touched them here and there, while her manner was singularly devoid of coquetry. Wilton might have been her grandfather for all of embarrassment or excitement his attentions caused. "And you can draw; perhaps you know these trees; they are not far from Monkscleugh." She showed him a group of beeches most delicately yet clearly drawn. "I do not know the neighborhood. I am going there for the first time. May I ask if you reside there?" "Yes, at present. Oh, you will find a great deal to sketch all about--especially by the river--and there is beauty, too, in the gray skies and rich brown moors; but how unlike the beauty of the sunny south!" "It is not necessary to ask which you like; your voice tells that," said Wilton. "And are you not fond of drawing?" she resumed, as if the subject had an irresistible attraction. "You would not look at such school-boy productions as mine," returned Wilton, smiling. "As I said before, they are mere rough professional drawings." "Professional! What is your profession?"