She looked resolutely out of the window, trying to take an interest in the view, but it was all no good, she felt as though her heart was breaking. Having stealthily wiped her eyes for the third time, she glanced hastily around the compartment, and was much relieved to find that no one appeared to be paying her any attention, except her opposite neighbour, the stranger who had spoken to her mother, and he was peeping at her around the newspaper that he was holding open in front of him. When he met Marigold's tearful eyes he withdrew behind the newspaper, but the next moment he was peeping at her again, not curiously, but with a look of evident concern. This time he spoke—
"Have you ever been westward before?" he inquired.
"No, never!" she answered shyly.
"Ah, you have a treat in store, then! Fine place Exeter! Fine county Devon! I'm a Devonshire man; was born in a little village a few miles from Exeter."
"Oh! My mother and father were both born in Devonshire too!"
He brought his great hands down on his knees with a sounding smack that made his fellow-passengers start and regard him with amazement. Nothing abashed he laughed loudly.
"That's capital!" he cried. "Capital! That was your mother, I suppose, the lady on the platform at Paddington?"
"Yes."
At the thought of her mother the tears rose afresh to Marigold's eyes. Her new acquaintance saw them, and hastily turned the conversation to himself again.
"Yes, I'm Devonshire born," he continued; "my name's Joseph Adams, and my friends call me 'Farmer Jo.' Now, what, if I may make so bold as to ask, is your name, little missy?"