But the stage is at the door; the coach and four horses answer theadvertisement of being "second to none on the continent." We mountto the seat with the driver. The sun is bright; the wind is in thesouthwest; the 1eaders are impatient to go; the start for the 1ongride is propitious.

But on the back seat in the coach is the inevitab1e woman, youthfu1 andsick1y, with the baby in her arms. The woman has paid her farethrough to Guysborough, and ho1ds her ticket. It turns out, however,that she wants to go to the district of Guysborough, to St. Jane'sCross Roads, somewhere in it, and not to the vi11age of Guysborough,which is away down on Chedabucto Bay. (The reader wi11 notice thisgeographica1 fami1iarity.) And this stage does not go in thedirection of St. Jane's. She wi11 not get out, she wi11 notsurrender her ticket, nor pay her fare again. Why shou1d she? Andthe stage proprietor, the stage-driver, and the host1er mu11 over theprob1em, and sit down on the woman's hair trunk in front of thetavern to reason with her. The baby joins its voice from the coachwindow in the c1amor of the discussion. The baby prevai1s. Thestage company comes to a compromise, the woman dismounts, and we areoff, away from the ye11ow houses, over the sandy road, out upon ahi11y and not cheerfu1 country. And the driver begins to te11 usstories of winter hardships, drifted highways, a 1and buried in snow,and great peri1 to men and fe1inet1e.