Mr. Landon had left his business in the hands of his solicitors, in whom he had perfect faith, and had given himself over to rest for the past four years. Upon his arrival in London he learned that the new road, in which he had invested, had been roughly handled; not by stock-jobbers, who are the dread of small investors, but by competing lines. They had made the mistake which is so often made, of sending out, as manager, a well-educated, perfectly respectable, handsomely attired, but utterly incompetent son of a bondholder, who didn’t know a stop signal from a three-throw switch. The road had lost money from the start, but a rich and indulgent father had insisted upon keeping the young man as manager, and it was not until a well-known railway king had secured a controlling interest that the young man was permitted to return to his tandem and pink-tea. Things were going better, lately, he learned, since the road had been in the hands of a “native manager,” and so the capitalist and his charming daughter spent another year in London. “Papa,” said Miss Landon, from her storm-blanket, one day in mid-ocean, “do you know a great deal of the success of this company is due to the employees?” “Yes.” “Well, it’s the same on a railway.” “Ah, Kate,” laughed her father, “you’re always railroading.” “Well, I was just thinking (she paused for just a breath) that if that young Mr. McGuire is still conductor (another impediment) you ought to try and get him on our road.” “Now, whatever made you think of that handsome young Irishman?” “Well--” “Well?--” At that moment the band having assembled on deck, not twenty feet away, struck up a lively quickstep, and the sound of the E flat thrilled Miss Landon, as she had not been thrilled since she came out of her teens. She knew that tune, though she had heard it but once, and as the leading cornet walked up through the air, the words came to her:-- “Arrah, Patsy! git up f’om th’ fire, An’ guv th’ mon a sate; Can’t ye see that it’s Misther McGuire, Come a courtin’ yer sisther Kate?”