OFF TO THE MOUNTAINS.

“Here's your train!” said Mr. Ashford, hurrying into the waiting-room where he had left his wife and children while he purchased their tickets. “I'll carry Freddie. Come, Marty.”

While they were waiting their turn to pass through the gate Marty and her mother were jostled by the crowd against two small, ragged, dirty boys, who had crept by the officers and were looking through the railings at the arriving and departing trains.

“Lots of these folks are goin' to the country, where 'ta'n't so hot and stuffy as 'tis here,” said the larger boy. “Was you ever in the country, Jimmy?”

“Naw,” replied the other, a thin, pale little chap about seven, leaning wearily against an iron post. “Never seed no country, but I wants to.”

Marty and her mother, who heard what was said and saw the wistful look on the small boy's face, pressed each other's hands and exchanged a sorrowful glance. Then they were obliged to move on; but after going through the gate Marty pulled her hand out of her mother's and, running back, took a couple of cakes from a paper bag she carried and passed them through the fence to the boys. How their faces brightened at this little act of kindness!

“Marty, Marty!” called her father, who had not seen what she did and was afraid she would get lost in the crowd, “where are you? Hurry up, child!”

Then, when he had made them comfortable in the car and was about bidding them good-by, he said,

“Now, Marty, when you change cars stick closely to your mother and don't be running after strangers, as you did a moment ago.”

“Why, papa,” Marty protested earnestly, “they weren't strangers; at least I know that littlest boy with the awfully torn hat. He is Jimmy—”

“Well, well, I can't stop now to hear who he is, but I didn't know he was an acquaintance of yours. However, don't run after anybody, or you will get lost some of these days. Good-by, good-by. Be good children, both of you.”

“Who was that boy, Marty?” asked Mrs. Ashford presently.

“He's Jimmy Torrence, and he lives in Jennie's house. Don't you remember I told you that one day, when we were all in Mrs. Scott's room singing to Jennie, a little boy came and leaned against the door-post and listened? Mrs. Scott told him to come in and took him on her lap. She gave him a cup of milk, and after he went away she said he had been sick with a fever and his folks were very poor. There's a good many of them, and they live in the third-story back-room.”

“Oh, yes, I remember. So that is the boy. Poor little fellow! He looks as if he needed some country air.”

“Doesn't he!” said Marty. “O mamma, don't you think that society Mrs. Watson belongs to would send him to the country for a week? That would be better than nothing.”

“I fear they cannot, for Mrs. Watson told me the other day that there are a great many more children who ought to be sent than they have money to pay for.”

“I wish he could go,” said Marty.

The boy's pale, wistful face haunted her for a while, but in the excitement of the journey it faded from her mind.

After the rush and roar of the train how perfectly still it seemed in the green valley where stood Trout Run Station! How peaceful the mountains! how pure and sweet the air!

“Mamma,” said Marty almost in a whisper, “everything is exactly the same as ever.”

“Mountains don't change much,” replied Mrs. Ashford as she seated herself on one of the trunks and took Freddie on her lap.

“But I mean this funny little station and the tiny river and the old red tannery over there, and the quietness and everything! And oh, there's Hiram! He looks just as he did summer before last, and I believe he's got on the very same straw hat!”

Hiram, Farmer Stokes' hired man, who had come to meet the travellers, now appeared from the rear of the station, where he had been obliged to stay by his horses until the train had vanished in the distance. His sunburnt face wore a broad smile, and though he did not say much, Mrs. Ashford and Marty knew that in his slow, quiet way he was very glad to see them. He seemed to be particularly struck by the fact that the children had grown so much, and when Freddie got off his mother's lap and ran across the platform, Hiram gazed at him in admiration, also seeming highly amused.

“I can't believe this tall girl's Marty, and as for the little boy—why, he was carried in arms the last time I saw him!”

“Two years makes a great difference in children,” said Mrs. Ashford.

“That's so,” Hiram assented. “Well, I reckon we'd better be moving.”

“How I dread the steep hills,” said Mrs. Ashford as they were being helped into the wagon after the baggage had been stowed away. “I do hope your horses are safe, Hiram. Now, Marty, be sure to hold on with both hands when we come to the worst places.”

“Don't you be 'fraid, Mrs. Ashford; there isn't a mite of danger,” said Hiram, gathering up the reins. “Get up!”

“Get up!” cried Freddie, who had watched the process of getting started with the greatest interest, and who was now holding a pair of imaginary reins in one tiny fist and flourishing an imaginary whip with the other.

Hiram laughed aloud. That Freddie could walk was funny enough, but that he could talk and make believe drive was too much for Hiram. It was some time before he got over it.

“How's Evaline?” asked Marty. “Why didn't she come to meet us?”

“She's spry. She wanted to come along down, but her ma was afraid 'twould crowd you.”

After a drive of about three miles among the mountains, the winding road gradually ascending, with here and there a somewhat steep incline, they approached an open, level place from which there was a magnificent view of what Marty called the “real mountains.” For these wooded or cultivated hills they were driving among were only the beginnings of the range. Here was a cluster of houses and a white frame “hotel” with green blinds.

“They've been doing right smart of building in Riseborough since you were up,” said Hiram to Mrs. Ashford. “You see the hotel's done, and Sims has built him a new store, and Mrs. Clarkson's been building on to her cottage.”

“Is the hotel a success?” asked Mrs. Ashford.

“First-rate. Full all last summer, and Dutton expects a lot of folks this season. A big party came up t'other day.”

They had a chance to see the guests at the hotel, ladies on the piazzas and children playing in the green yard, while Hiram stopped to do an errand at the store, which was also the postoffice.

Nearly another mile of up-hill brought them to their destination—a brown farmhouse with its red barns and granaries standing in the midst of smiling fields and patches of cool, dark woods, while in the distance rose grand, solemn mountains.

There was Evaline, seated on the low gatepost, and Mrs. Stokes and her grownup daughter, Almira, in the doorway, all on the lookout and ready to wave their handkerchiefs the moment the wagon appeared.

“It's more like going to see some cousins or something than being summer-boarders, isn't it, mamma?” said Marty.

“Here we all are, Mrs. Stokes!” cried Mrs. Ashford from the wagon. “Quite an addition to your family.”

“The more the merrier! I'm right down glad to see you,” said good-natured Mrs. Stokes, coming to lift the children down and kissing them heartily.

The travellers were very tired after their long day's journey. Mrs. Ashford and Marty were ready to do justice to the good supper provided, but Freddie was only able to keep his eyes open long enough to eat a little bread and milk. The next morning, however, he was as bright as a button, and took to country life so naturally that he was out in the yard feeding the chickens before his mother knew what he was about.

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