there, and presently by the solid masonry of a wall that marked the boundaries of another great estate. It was the Paston place, and presently they turned in to an entrance flanked by stone-markers, and began to drive along a road arched by tall leafy trees. Night had come, the moon was not yet well up, but from time to time there was beside the road the gleam of steel, and at times as they passed a cleared space he could plainly see the rail pattern of a tiny railway, complete in all respects—with roadbed, rock-ballast, grades, and cuts, embankments, even tunnels, but all so small in scale that it suggested a gigantic toy more than anything else. He asked what it was and Joel answered:
“It’s Hunter’s railway.”
“Hunter’s railway?” he asked in a puzzled tone. “But why does he need a railway here? What does he use it for?”
“Oh, he really doesn’t need it for anything,” Joel whispered. “It’s of no use to anyone. He just likes to play with it.”
“Play with it? But—but what is it?… Isn’t it a real railway?”
“Yes, of course,” Joel answered, laughing at his astonishment. “It’s really quite marvellous—complete in every way—with tunnels, stations, bridges, signals, round-houses, and everything else a regular railway has. Only everything is on a very small scale—like a toy.”
“But the engine—the locomotive?… How does that run? Do you wind it up, as you do a toy, or run it by electricity, or how?”
“Oh, no,” Joel answered. “It’s a regular locomotive—not over two or three feet high, I should say—but runs by steam, just like a real locomotive…. It’s really quite a fascinating thing,” he whispered. “You ought to see it some time.”
“But—but how does he run it? Is he able to get into anything as small as that?”
“He can, yes,” said Joel, laughing again. “But usually he just runs along by the side. It’s pretty cramped quarters for a grown man.”
“A grown man!… Do you mean that Mr. Paston built this little railway for himself?”
“But, of course!” Joel turned, and looked at his friend with a surprised stare. “Whom did you think I was talking about?”
“Why, I—I thought when you said—’Hunter’you meant one of his children—a boy—some child in his family who—”
“No, not at all,” Joel whispered, laughing again at the astonished and bewildered look upon his companion’s face. “It may be for a child, but the child is Hunter Paston himself…. You see,” he said more
