A few years ago, and about fifteen miles from London, a gentleman named Freeling, returning from the village of A---- to the village of B----, a distance of only four miles, had to cross one of the two trunk lines of railway which runs northward from the great metropolis and intercepts populous districts of England. To tell the exact truth about this gentleman, he had been visiting a friend--a man of substance, and likewise in the horticultural, floricultural, and agricultural lines, in which Mr. Freeling's mind had an inclination to run. To tell a little more of the truth, as it is desirable to tell the whole, after examining, approving, and admiring the skill of his friend and its results, Mr. Freeling was invited by Mr. Goodwin to dinner; and I believe that the guest imbibed rather excessively of his host's spiritual stores and wines. Yet he was not insensible to sights and sounds; and if he had been, he would not have figured as a character in this narrative. The way of Mr. Freeling from his friend's house to his own home lay, after crossing the railway, through a narrow lane not far from a station. Happily for him however, perhaps, he was not aware that, near the footpath across the line (that is, the railway-line), there had been a great smash about the time that the two rustic amateurs had been discussing the good cheer of the host--somewhere about four hours before the incidents I am about to describe. The _débris_ had been, however, cleared up before our friend passed the scene of the catastrophe, and none of its relics were visible in the moonlight. He had not proceeded far beyond the rails, when he thought he heard a low sound very like a groan; and if he were any judge of such things (he reasoned), it was the moaning of a man or woman in pain. He paused; he listened. All was silent. He moved on a pace or two; listened again; and the wind brought him something like a repetition of the moan. Could he be mistaken? he asked himself. No; that was a human voice; perhaps some drunken wretch. If so, the first thought which suggested itself was, that he should turn back and see that the man was not lying in the track of the iron horse or its carriages. Second thoughts are said to be the best,--and, if selfishness be better than disinterestedness, Mr. Freeling's second thoughts were better than his first. What did it matter to him, he argued with himself, if people got drunk? They must suffer for it, was the second thought of the half-drunken man. So he trudged along again; but the sound, louder this time, overtook him once more. He was not essentially an unkind man; and although home had peculiar attractions for him in his then condition, he was obliged by the force of his human nature to pause. Another groan. There could be no mistake about it. A poor wretch was lying somewhere near him in evident pain. He shouted: "Holloa! what is the matter?" A feeble groan responded. "Where are you?" he cried. Again a moan.