Their way led them down a steep hill almost opposite their own house—­ a hill with just a house here and there on either side of it, and a carpenter’s shop, whence wafted out a sweet, fresh scent of newly-cut wood.  The children raced to the very foot of it, and then retraced their steps to gather up the fragments of the milk-bottle, which had come to grief within the first twenty yards.  Then on they went again, past more cottages and sundry turnings, until at last they reached a curious old rough-and-tumble wharf on one side of the road, where the coal which had been brought by train was piled up in great stacks for the coalmen to take round presently in their carts.  Here, too, was drawn up a train—­one such as only those who lived in those parts have ever been privileged to see.  It was composed of an old-fashioned squat little engine called the “Rover,” and a few open carriages, with seats along the sides for passengers, and some trucks for any goods that might be needed.

No passengers occupied the seats at that moment; in fact, they were generally conspicuous by their absence, save once a year, when the whole accommodation was bespoken for the Brianite Sunday-school treat.  The “Rover,” in fact, spent most of her noble life in drawing coal, clay, and sand up and down the seven miles which lay between Gorlay and Wenbridge.  It seemed a limited sphere, but only to the ignorant, who knew nothing of her services to the dwellers by the roadside, the parcels she delivered, the boots she took to be mended and restored again to their owners, the messages she carried, and the hundred and one other little acts of usefulness which filled her daily round.  I say “her,” for to every one privileged to know her the “Rover” was a lady; one who deserved and received all men’s deference and consideration, and the gentlest of handling too.

As Kitty and Dan lingered now by the gate to look at her, they saw Dumble, the driver, lovingly passing a cloth over her, as though to wipe the perspiration from her iron forehead, while Tonkin, the fireman, stood leaning against her, with his arm caressingly outstretched.  Behind Dan and Kitty, on the farther side of the road, grew a high hawthorn hedge, under the shelter of which was a seat where people sat and sunned themselves by the hour, and at the same time gazed at the life and bustle with which the wharf woke up now and then.  There were two old men on the seat now.  They touched their hats to Dan and his sister, and with a melancholy shake of their old heads sighed in sympathy with Kitty as she cried, “O Dan, I wish we could all go by train, all the way to Wenbridge.  It will be perfectly lovely down the line.”

But Dan seemed less eager than Kitty or the old men.  “We shall reach the woods before they do, if we walk on,” he said, moving away; “and there is such a lot to see on the way.”