That same evening, supper comfortably over, Joe Strong busy at work on a drawing of the dump and the opposite hills, we were all out on the platform together, sitting there, under the tented heavens, with the same sense of privacy as if we had been cabined in a parlour, when the sound of brisk footsteps came mounting up the path. We pricked our ears at this, for the tread seemed lighter and firmer than was usual with our country neighbours. And presently, sure enough, two town gentlemen, with cigars and kid gloves, came debauching past the house. They looked in that place like a blasphemy.

“Good evening,” they said. For none of us had stirred; we all sat stiff with wonder.

“Good evening,” I returned; and then, to put them at their ease, “A stiff climb,” I added.

“Yes,” replied the leader; “but we have to thank you for this path.”