"Then—what can I do?" said Margaret, a slight quiver in her voice.
"I'll ask the station-master," said the first speaker, and, hurrying to the ticket-office, he soon returned with a fresh authority.
"What place was it you wanted?" he asked politely.
"Oaklands," repeated Margaret for the third time—"Mr. Medhurst's."
A shade of surprise crept over the station-master's face.
"Did you say Oaklands?" he repeated.
"Yes—yes, that is the name. Oh, you do know it?"
"Certainly," he replied, "and I fancy a pony-trap from there met the earlier down-train; a man-servant and a little girl came and watched the passengers alight, and then drove off again."
"Oh, that is it then! They must have made some mistake in the time of the train. Now, what can I do? Is this place far away?" asked Margaret, somewhat anxiously.
"Several miles, miss. It's right up on the hills."