"Her reckoned you'd veel a wamblin' in the stommick, travellin' arl the waäy from Hexeter to Plymouth. There, stow it awaäy. Not veelin' peckish? Never maind: there's a plenty o' taime betwix' this an' Plymouth." "No, thanks." "Tut-tut, now--" He insisted, and the packet, on the white paper wrapper of which spots of grease were spreading, changed hands. The little man peered wistfully up into his son's face: his own eyes were full of love, but seemed to search for something. "How dost laike it, up to Hexeter: an' how't get along?" "Kepital--kepital. Give mothaw my love." "E'es be shure. Fainely plaized her'll be to hear thee'rt zo naicely adrest. Her'd maäde up her maind, pore zowl, that arl your buttons ud be out, wi' nobody to zee arter 'en. But I declare thee'rt drest laike a topsawyer." And with this a dead silence fell between the two. The old man shifted his weight from one foot to another, and twice cleared his throat. The young counter-jumper averted his eyes from his father's quivering lip to stare up the platform. The minutes ran on. At last the old man found his voice-- "Thic' there's a stubbard apple you've got in your hand." "Take your seats, please!" The guard held the door while they shook hands again. "Charley" leaned out at the window as our train began to move. "Her comes from the zeccond 'spalier past the inyon-bed; al'ays the vurst to raipen, thic' there tree." The old fellow broke into something resembling a run as he followed our carriage to shout-- "Turble bad zayson vur zaider!" With that he halted at the end of the platform, and watched us out of sight. His son flung himself on the seat with--I could have kicked him for it--a deprecatory titter. Then he drew a long breath; but it was twenty minutes before his blush faded, and he regained confidence to ask me for another light. Just eighteen months after I was travelling up to London in the Zulu express. A large Fair Trade meeting had been held at Plymouth the night before, and three farmers in the compartment with me were discussing that morning's leader in the _Western Daily Mercury_. One of them had already been goaded into violent speech when we halted at Newton Abbot and another passenger stepped in--a little old man in a suit of black. I recognised him at once. And yet he was changed woefully. He had fallen away in flesh; the lines had deepened beside his upper lip; and in spite of a glossier suit he had an appearance of hopelessness which he had not worn when I saw him for the first time. He took his seat, looked about him vacantly and caught the eye of the angry farmer, who nodded, broke off his speech in the middle of a sentence, and asked in a curiously gentle voice-- "Travellin' up to Exeter?" The old man bent his head for "yes," and I saw the tears well up in his weak eyes. "There's no need vur to ax your arrand." The farmer here dropped his tone almost to a whisper.