If you cross the Potomac at Washington and journey westward for about fifty miles—allowing for the circuitous course taken by the railroad—you will reach Melville Court House in a trifle under two hours; always supposing, however, that the eastbound train isn’t late at the junction, that there are no funeral parties aboard, and that the negroes whose duty it is to coal the tender just across the river have not gone off to Alexandria to spend the day. The first part of the journey lies through a country of low red-clay hills, clad with oak and rhododendron, a rather uninteresting country, where the farms have a mortgaged look and where unpainted structures cluster about the shedlike stations for no other apparent reason than that misery likes company. Yet away from the railroad and its artificial conditions soft stretches of hillside and meadow, interspersed with timbered creeks, hint of fairer and better things.

“It’s a poorish farming country around here,”[199] said Phillip. “You’ll notice a difference after awhile.”

They had the smoking compartment to themselves and were lolling indolently upon the leather seats, their gazes fixed upon the panorama that swept undulatingly past the windows.

“Well, it doesn’t look very enterprising hereabouts,” John responded. “I think if they’d haul away a few of the rotting wagons and farming implements that decorate the landscape the place would have a more prosperous appearance.”

It was new country to him and he had already seen much that interested and amused him. It was difficult to realize that Washington, with its Northern airs, was but thirty miles behind them. With the crossing of the ice-filmed Potomac they had apparently passed from the world of hurry and bustle and impatience into one of languor, softness and relaxation. It seemed that with every mile they dropped behind them a year went, too. The difference had been made apparent by little incidents. Soon after they had entered the train the conductor discovered Phillip’s presence and had shaken hands, calling him Phil, and later taking his place beside him and relating news of things and persons[200] for quite half an hour. He was introduced to John as Major Fairburn. After he had left them to gallantly help a lady and a little girl from the train, John learned that he had served through the war and had won his title of major for heroism with Pickett’s Division at Gettysburg.

“But, great Scott,” exclaimed John, “isn’t he capable of better stuff than conductoring on a little old two-by-twice railroad like this?”

“I reckon not,” replied Phillip. “I think he tried law for awhile down in Fredericksburg, but couldn’t make it go. You see, John, after the war——”

“Oh, hang the war!” said the other savagely. “I suppose the brakeman is at least a colonel, isn’t he? And the engineer’s a—a lieutenant-general?”

“N-no,” answered Phillip. “I don’t know the brakeman; the Major says he’s just been put on this run. But the engineer’s a man named Warren, who used to go to the University. His folks lost their money and their land——”

“During the war!”

“During the war; and so he took to running an engine because he’d rather do that than starve, I[201] reckon. You see, John, we don’t think less of folks here because they run engine or brake, just so long as they’re gentlemen.”

“But that isn’t it,” answered the other irritably. “The point’s here: a fellow that had it in him to win promotion in your confounded war must have it in him to do something better than railroad work. Can’t you see that?”

“Some of them farm,” answered Phillip, “but, of course, the most of them drifted away to other places after the war was over. Some of our folks went West and stayed there. But—I reckon fellows like the Major and Warren didn’t like leaving home; I know I shouldn’t. I reckon I’d have stayed and done the best I could.”

“Home be blowed! The chap that does stunts in the world is the chap that hasn’t got any home. His home’s where his toothbrush is. Your Major had no business thinking about home. He ought to have gone off and scratched gravel somewhere and made something of himself.”

“Maybe,” Phillip answered doubtfully. “But I reckon we care more about home than you folks in the North do.”

“I guess you do. And if that’s a sample over[202] there I can’t say that I blame you. By Jove, Phil, that is sweet!”

A long turn in the road had brought into view a broad expanse of winter turf rising gently from a country road to a wooded promontory on which rested—there is no better word—a gleaming white residence formed of a central structure two stories high, from which on either side lesser buildings stretched away and were lost behind the trees. The sun shone warmly, brightly on the tall pillars and dignified front as though it loved them.

“Yes, that’s Wancrewe’s View,” said Phillip. “We’re getting into my country now,” he added with a trace of proud proprietorship in his voice. “Things look different already, don’t they?”

At the next station the platform was well filled with persons who had an unmistakable air of purpose and an equally unmistakable appearance of being dressed up. But there was a gravity in their faces that John wondered at until presently there came into view, from the direction of the baggage car, a fresh pine box that told the story. The Major was one of the bearers. He had discarded his blue cap, and his lean, tanned face wore an expression of sympathy that John could not think aught but[203] genuine. The box was borne, slowly, reverently, down the narrow platform to the baggage shed and there placed upon a truck. The throng outside was silent; the engine purred softly somewhere out of sight, and the only sound was the low directions of a little man in black who helped settle the box on the truck. Presently the Major passed under the window and entered the rear of the car. From a cupboard he brought forth a pasteboard box and, as he did so, his eye fell on Phillip. He paused at the door.

“It’s Tom Culverson,” he explained. “He died up in Pennsylvania Tuesday last. That’s his sister, the little lady with the light hair.”

“Oh,” said Phillip. “He was a friend of my father, Major. I remember him. I’m sorry. Are those flowers?”

“Yes, just a few roses I got in Washington. I don’t reckon there’ll be many flowers, Phil.”

He passed out with his box, and John, watching from the window, saw him present them to the “little lady with the light hair,” a little lady with tired, tear-washed eyes who raised her handkerchief to her face as she accepted them and held the Major’s hand a long while. John’s last conscious glimpse as the[204] train moved slowly away was of “the little lady with the light hair.” She held the Major’s tribute in her hands while her eyes, with something in them almost approaching a smile, followed the train.

“I guess we’re a bit late, aren’t we?” he asked.

Phillip consulted his watch.

“A little, I reckon; about ten minutes. Why?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Maybe we’ll make it up,” said Phillip apologetically.

“Nonsense,” answered John softly; “I’m glad of it.”

The hills grew larger, softer in outline; the soil, where it was not hidden under bluegrass, looked darker and richer; the country had a more finished appearance hereabouts. Phillip pointed out the places of interest: here a stream that trickled through a wooded bottom where, just out of sight from the railroad, there was wonderful fishing to be had; yonder a hill where wild turkey had been killed no later than a year ago; in the distance a purple promontory of timbered hillside where deer were still extant—according to the stories told in the evenings in front of crackling logs; nearer at hand an old brick house, almost hemmed in by modern barn buildings,[205] a stock farm of wide repute. John looked, admired, questioned; and absent-mindedly filled a fresh pipe.

“It’ll be a short one,” warned Phillip, “for we’ll be at Melville in about ten minutes. I hope Margey meets us.”

“Is it likely?” asked John. The possibility of meeting Phil’s sister so soon had not occurred to him. For some reason which he did not try to explain it made him rather breathless for a moment.

“Yes, Margey’s fond of driving,” answered his companion; “and if she can get away from the house she’ll probably come for us herself and let Bob bring a wagon for the baggage.” He began stuffing magazines and books into his bags and John followed his example. There was a long blast from the engine whistle, and the major, rising from his seat where for ten miles or so he had been in conversation with an elderly passenger, announced “Melville! Melville!” and gathered up the packages of a middle-aged lady, preparatory to helping her off the train. John was struggling into his coat when the train slowed down. Stooping, he looked out onto a straggling village street, crossed by a trickling stream, a weather-beaten platform and a station building sadly in need of a new coat of whitewash. The usual group of[206] idlers, white and coloured, were on hand. John picked up his luggage and followed Phillip from the car, bidding good-by to the Major ceremoniously, as to a host.

“I guess your sister didn’t come,” he said as he looked over the half-dozen vehicles in sight. But Phillip didn’t hear him. He was shaking hands heartily with a young, very black and smiling negro.

“Bob, take Mr. North’s bag round and then get Maid from the baggage car. Did Miss Margey come?”

“Yessir; she’s waitin’ roun’ back. Cardinal don’t like the cyars much, Mister Phil. You folks go ahead, sir; I’ll fetch these yere bags. Has you got trunks?”

“Yes, here’s my check. Give him yours, John, will you? You brought the wagon?”

“Yessir.”

“All right, Bob; hurry them along. Come on, John.”

They started around a corner of th............