"Beautiful--beautiful, and if it wasn't for this foreign competition eating our very pockets, you'd be making a fine price now on these last years. I think you did right to hold them up. What we are coming to, I don't know; trade is being driven out of the country, and there's nothing but ruin staring most of us in the face. Fortunately, I was in the swim when one got £20 per pocket; but _now_, well--they are not worth growing; I've grubbed up several acres this season." There the conversation got quite beyond Margaret's comprehension, as further technicalities in connection with the hop trade were discussed, with summer fruit prices. Already she felt in a new world, and a sense of loneliness oppressed her. Her thoughts passed from the subjects of her companions' discussion to her own troubles, and a nervous unrest as to whether she was getting near her destination. The stoppings at small stations seemed frequent, and at each one she gazed anxiously at the names written on the boards and seats upon the platforms. Her obvious nervousness presently attracted the attention of one of her travelling companions. "Can I assist you?" he asked her politely, as he saw her struggling to get some of her property down from the rack. "I suppose you are getting out here?" The train was slowing up as he spoke. "Thank you very much," she answered, as the bundle of wraps was deposited on the seat opposite, then continued anxiously, "I don't know if this is my destination." "What station do you want?" he asked. "Steynham. I don't know it at all." "Oh, that is a little farther on; four more stations, and then yours," he answered. "Do I have to change at all?" she asked. "No, this is slow from our last stopping-place." "I am so much obliged," she answered, in a tone of relief. After a little pause her companion continued, "I know Steynham very well, and most of the people who live there; can I direct you further?" "Thank you, I'm afraid not. I get out at that station, but I shall be met there, I expect. I am going on higher up the country beyond Wychcliff, to a place called Oaklands--a Mr. Medhurst's." "_Oaklands--Medhurst,_" repeated her interlocutor with a slight start, which she did not fail to catch. "Do you know anything about it--about them?" she asked somewhat timidly, for the man's tone and expression as he repeated the words had filled her with a vague disquiet. "No--oh--no, I've never been there, never met Mr. Medhurst," he answered, somewhat hesitatingly. He offered no further remark, and remained apparently buried in his newspaper until the train drew up, and he and his companion prepared to get out. As they alighted, he turned to Margaret Woodford. "The next station is yours," and, lifting his hat, passed down the platform out of her sight. "Do you know anything of the place she's going to?" asked his friend, as they descended the steps.