"What time do I get to Daisy Bank?" she asked the porter who put her box into the van.
"In ten minutes, miss; third station."
She was alone in the carriage, and she sat looking out of the window, and wondering what she would find when she reached her destination. She noticed a bright light in the sky, and after a minute or two she saw that it came from the furnaces of several large ironworks that she was passing. By their bright light she could see the men at work, their faces lighted up by the red glow. But all this time she was carefully counting the stations. One passed; two passed. She must get out at the next.
The train stopped. She could hear the porter shouting, "Dysy Bank, Dysy Bank," with true Staffordshire pronunciation. She got out of the carriage, wondering who would be there to meet her. At first she could see no one; but, as she walked along the platform to get her luggage out of the van, a girl of about twelve years came up to her.
"Are you Miss Douglas?"
"Yes, I am. Have you come to meet me?"
"Yes. You're to leave your box at the station, and father will send for it."
"Can't I get a cab?"
The girl laughed. "Cab!" she said. "I should think not! We've no cabs here."
They left the box in the care of the porter, and the girl led the way to a steep flight of stone steps leading to the road above. Then she went along a roughly made cinder-path, and Marjorie followed a little behind, at times plunging into great pools of water which she could not see in the dim light, and at other times almost falling on the slippery mud. Then they turned into a short street, if street it could be called. It was so irregular that it seemed to Marjorie as if houses of all kinds had been thrown down there, and left to find their own level and own position. They passed one or two squalid shops, which appeared to sell little besides shrivelled oranges and the commonest of cheap sweets.