"I want to get in--to see the grounds of the abbey," I explained casually, but she was not to be overwhelmed by any airy nonchalance.

She shook her head.

"But that can't be!"

The smile which accompanied this information was almost gleeful.

"No? But why not?"

She looked at me pityingly.

"Didn't you know we was in mourning?" she demanded, bristling with importance.

I instantly made a penitent face, then glanced appreciatively at her gown, but she gave no evidence of being a physiognomist. She failed to take note of my contrite expression.

"You can't go sight-seeing in here!" she said.

"Not even a little way?"

I accompanied this plea by the display of a shining half-crown, which I carried in my glove for emergency. That's one good thing about being away from the United States--you don't have to regard money so tenderly. You realize that shillings and francs and lire were made to spend for souvenirs and service, but dollars--ugh! They were made to put in the bank! So I twinkled this ever-ready half-crown temptingly in the morning light, but she shook her head again.

"While we was in mourning?" she demanded, with a gasp of outraged propriety. "Why--_wha'ud the minister say?_"

At this I turned away sadly--for I had been in England long enough to know there's never any use trying to surmise _what_ the minister 'ud say!

"Just the same, you'd make a dandy old servant--and I'm a great mind to buy you and put you in my suit-case, along with the Sheffield candlesticks," I thought, as I made my way back to the station.

During my absence a train had come clattering in--and it stood stock-still now, while the engineer and the station-master held a long conversation over a basket of homing pigeons which had been deposited upon the platform. I viewed the locomotive listlessly enough--the walk having taken some of my former impatient energy away, but my interest was aroused as I came upon the platform by the appearance of a servant in livery, disentangling from one of the compartments a suit-case and leather hat-box.

The man's back was toward me, as he struggled to lift his burden high above the precious basket of pigeons which was usurping place and attention, but the look of the traveling paraphernalia held my eye for a moment.

"Could it belong to an American?" I mused.

The servant deposited the cases on the platform, then turned, still with his back toward me, and took part in the lively pigeon argument.

I looked at the beautiful smoothness of the leather.

"Of course they're American!" I decided, for you must know that nearly any Englishman's luggage would compare unfavorably with the bags Aunt Jemima brings with her when she comes up to the city for a week's mortification to her nephews.

"Never judge an Englishman by the luggage he lugs!" is only a fair act of discretion.

I crossed the platform, partly to get away from the mournful sounds emanating from the wicker basket, and then, at the door of the little station I was arrested by another sound. It was a sound which had certainly not been there when I had left, half an hour before! I halted--wondering if there really could be anything in psychic warnings!

Inside the dingy little room some one was whistling! The melody was falling upon the air with a certain softness which, however, did not conceal its suppressed vehemence--and the tune was _Caro Mio Ben!_

"Anybody has a right to whistle it!" I told myself savagely, but I still hesitated--my heart standing still from the mere force of the hypothesis. After a moment it began beating again, as if to make up for lost time.

The whistling man inside left off his music--then I heard his footsteps tramping impatiently across the bare wooden floor. He finally came to the door and looked out. I glanced up, and our eyes met! It _was Caro Mio Ben! It was Caro Mio Ben!_

"Well?" he said.

He stood perfectly still for half a minute it seemed--making no effort toward a civilized greeting.

"Well!" I responded--as soon as I could.

"This is queer, isn't it?"

I looked at him.

"'Queer?'" I managed to repeat--that is, I heard the word escaping past the tightening muscles of my throat. "_Queer!_"

"Most extraordinary!"

"I should--I think I should like to sit down!" I decided, as he continued to stand staring at me, and I suddenly realized that I was very tired.

He moved aside.

"By all means! Come in and sit down, Miss Christie. This station fellow here tells me that you have been disappointed in your train."

"I have," I answered.

I might have added that I had been disappointed in everything most important in life, as well--but his own face was wearing such an expression of calm serenity that I was soothed as I looked at it.

"That's quite a problem here in England just now," he observed politely.

"So I have been informed."

After this, conversation flagged, until the silence made me nervous.

"I should think we ought to be asking each other--questions!" I suggested, trying to bring him to a realization of the necessary formalities, but he only turned and looked down at me, with a slightly amused, slightly superior smile.

"Questions?"

"About _ships_--and how long we intend staying--and what travelers usually ask!" I said.

He shook his head, as if the subjects held little interest for him.

"Why should I ask that--when I happen to know?" he inquired.

"You know--what?"

"That you came over on the _Luxuria_."

"Yes?"

"And that _The Oldburgh Herald_ sent you--to write up the coal strike."

"Yes--it did."

"And that you are going to stay--some time."