The stranger sank back with a gesture of weariness, “It's a hell of a ways to come,” he said sourly. “It will be a lot easier when they get the railroads through here; that will knock you, pardner,” he added as a pleasant afterthought. “I don't know about that;” said Mr. Bartlett quickly. “I guess it's going to be a right smart while before we hit on anything to beat hosses; the railroads is all right as far as they go, but the stages is here to stay. I reckon folks will always be in a hurry for the mail.” “Well, I'd hate to think anything would ever interfere with you,” said the stranger with an ugly grin. “How far did you say you'd come?” inquired Mr. Bartlett casually. “I allow I didn't say,” said the other briefly. “I reckon you ain't come any further than Pittsburg,” urged Mr. Bartlett tentatively. “You reckon not?” and the stranger smiled. “Philadelphia?” queried the driver. “No.” “New York, maybe?” cautiously. “I been there, but that ain't a patch on the distance I've come.” “Sailoring, maybe?” “Not any. I seen all the salt water I want to.” “Sick?” inquired Mr. Bartlett deeply interested. “I like to throw up my toes.” “You don't say!” Here the boy awoke with a start. “Are we there yet, Pop?” he asked, rubbing his eyes sleepily. The man's lips parted in a smile. “That's Benson ahead of us, son; we're almost there. Them's the church spires; and that round, dome-like thing's the court-house that you've heard me tell about.” There was not much of the town to see beyond the roofs of a few buildings which here and there showed among the trees, but the child was deeply impressed. “Is that the place where you was a little boy, Pop?” he questioned in an awestruck tone. He was quite overcome by the sight of it; he stretched his tired limbs with a sense of freedom and physical relief. It's a pretty gay looking town, ain't it? remarked Mr. Bartlett, with ponderous playfulness. The child nestled closer to his father's side. “Is that the crick off yonder?” he asked. “That's what it is, son, but the banks are pretty well grown up with willows since my time.” “Where's the sheep-wash, Pop, where you swum the lambs?” He was a grave little boy, and he had come a great way to see all these wonders. His father turned a trifle shame-facedly to Mr. Bartlett: “I been trying to hearten him up a bit on the trip,” he explained; then he added, “You can't see the sheep-wash from here, son; it's off to the other side of the town.” “Oh! Where's the sugar bush, where you and Grandpap made the long sweetening, and where you killed the timber-wolf, have we passed that?” The man glanced back over his shoulder, “I reckon from the look of things that's been cleaned up,” he said regretfully. “I laid off to show it to you as we come along.” “I wish she was here, don't you, Pop?” said the boy in a whisper, and he tucked his small hand into that of his father. The latter made no answer to this.