"At The World's End," replied the wagoner; "we'll make it at five o'clock, I reckon."
He was a shrewd calculator. As a church clock chimed five, he pointed with his whip to an old-fashioned inn, lying off from the roadside some hundred yards away, saying that was The World's End, and that they would put up there for the night, and start again early in the morning. As he spoke, they were nearing a pair of massive iron gates, through the open work of which could be seen a curved carriage-drive, lined with great elms. Straight and tall and stately, they presented the appearance of a giant regiment drawn up in lines to do honour to those who passed between.
"That's a grand place," observed Seth.
"It's the finest estate for many a mile round," said the wagoner.
"It has got a name."
"Oh, yes. Springfield it's called."
Seth Dumbrick listened. The estate was so built round with walls and trees that the carriage-drive was the only part open to the gaze of the passer-by. A faint sound of laughter--the laughter of the young--floated to his ears.
"It isn't so solemn as it looks," said Seth.
"There's a lot of company at Springfield," rejoined the wagoner. "They're spending a fine time, I reckon."
"The master must be a rich man. Is he a lord?"