on the first day of june the romney stage, more than an hour late, crossed back creek and stopped before the tollgate. a girl with a broad, flat, good-natured face came out to lift the rickety gate and collect the toll. the driver leaned down from his high seat to pass the time of day with her. this courtesy he never omitted, no matter how much he was behind in his schedule. while the driver was chatting, one of his five passengers jumped out at the rear end of the stage: a young man, well dressed and good-looking. he walked forward and interrupted.

“i say, driver, isn’t that turn-off the road to the mill?”

“shorely is, sir.”

“then i’ll walk over from here. take my trunk on to the post office, please, and leave it. my uncle will send for it.”

“your uncle?”

“yes; mr. colbert, at the mill.”

“so that’s how it is; you’re a colbert.” the driver shifted his tobacco to the other cheek. “which on ’em is your paw?”

“jacob. i’m martin colbert.”

“is that so!” he looked the young man over with interest. “ever been out here before?”

“yes, when i was a youngster. good day, driver. don’t forget to put my trunk off.” the young man saw no reason for tarrying; there was no one in sight but the toll-girl, noticeable only for her flat red face. martin lifted his hat to her, however, and set off down the stony by-road before the stage started. the driver leaned over to say to the girl: “the miller won’t be none too tickled to see him, i reckon! feller must ‘a’ got into some scrape agin, or he wouldn’t be comin’ out here, with a trunk, too! he’s a turrible wild one.”

the stage rattled on toward the post office, where it was to change horses. the flat-faced girl turned and went slowly down the mill road after the stranger, peering to right and left; but he was already hidden from sight by the tall sassafras bushes which grew thick all along the rail fence.

young colbert walked along carelessly, finding exercise agreeable after the jolting of the stage. sometimes he hummed a tune, sometimes he chuckled and ducked his shoulders. he was amused to find himself actually on his way to the mill house, one of the dreariest spots in all virginia, he reckoned. “the joke’s on me,” his giggle seemed to say.

just now he was lucky to have any place to go where he would be comfortable and well fed, and rid of his creditors. he was a tall, well-enough built fellow, but there was something soft about the lines of his body. he carried himself loosely at the shoulders and thighs. his clothes were town clothes, but strolling along unobserved he behaved like a country boy. when he laughed at his present predicament, he hitched up his trousers by his gallowses where his waistcoat hung open. he was easily diverted; no fixed purpose lurked behind his chuckle, though there was sometimes a flash of slyness in his whisky-coloured eyes. he stopped to watch a mud-turtle waddle across the road, and rolled the old fellow over on his back to see him kick — then relented and turned him right side up. when he got near the mill, martin buttoned his waistcoat, wiped the dust from his face, and straightened his shoulders. he did not stop at the mill, but went directly on to the house. till met him at the front door with genuine cordiality, restrained by correctness.

“the mistress is waiting for you in the parlour, mr. martin. we expected you before this.”

“sorry, till. the stage was late starting; had to wait for passengers from martinsburg. all the folks well here?”

“they’re all as usual, sir.” she opened the door into the parlour, where mrs. colbert was sitting near the fireplace, now closed by a painted fire-board. she smiled graciously and held out her hand. martin hurried across the room, and gallantly kissed her on the cheek.

she shook her finger at him. “you’ve kept me waiting for you a long while, martin. you were certainly in no hurry to make me a visit. i first wrote you before easter, and here we are coming into june.”

“it’s been a right busy time on the place, aunt sapphy.” he was still standing beside her chair. she reached out and felt his palm. “i don’t find any calluses’.”

he laughed gaily. “oh, we have plenty of field-hands — too many!”

washington came in with the tea-tray and put it on the table beside the mistress. the visitor drew up a chair and sat down opposite his aunt, crossing his legs and falling into an attitude of easy indolence which diverted her. she liked a dash of impudence in young men whom she considered attractive; and martin, she was thinking, was the best favoured of the younger colberts. just then she happened to notice that his boots were very dusty.

“why, martin, didn’t you ride your mare out?”

“no, ma’am. i came on the stage and walked over from the tollgate.”

“the stage? you must have been very uncomfortable. why didn’t you ride merrylegs, and send your box by the stage? it’s a pleasant ride.”

“i sold merrylegs this spring. had a good offer and needed the money.”

while he helped himself to sandwiches she studied his face.

“are you sure you sold her, mart?” she asked shrewdly.

he had not expected this question. he gave her a quick glance, and ducked his head with a grin which seemed to say: “you’ve caught me now!”

“well, anyhow, i parted with her, aunt sapphy.”

“cards, i’ll be bound!”

“no, honour bright. it was a racing bet. i’m not much of a card man. but i lose my head at the races.” he looked at her frankly, holding out his teacup with an “if you please.” easy, confidential, a trifle free in manner, as if she were not an old woman and an invalid. that was how she liked it. she told herself that martin’s visit would be very refreshing. she almost believed she had urged him to come solely because she liked to have young people about.

“no matter. we can let you have a mount. henry keeps a good riding horse to go in to winchester on business. he doesn’t like to be bothered with the carriage. i always preferred to go on horseback when i went to town for sunday service.”

“you pretty nearly lived on horseback, didn’t you? oh, down with us they still tell about how you used to take the fences.”

“yes, i liked riding, but i never gave myself over body and soul to horses, as the bushwells appear to do.”

“that’s right. they just live for the stables. the house and grounds would shock you now. people say they used to keep the place up as long as you went to visit there. but chestnut hill has never been the same since old matchem died.”

till appeared at the door and said that martin’s box had come.

mrs. colbert beckoned her. “call nancy to take mr. martin up to his room and unpack his things for him. she keeps your uncle’s room at the mill, martin, and she will do yours, and look after your laundry. young men are none too orderly, i seem to remember. now i will rest for an hour before supper.”

martin went up the wide staircase leading from the long hall. upstairs he saw an open door, and a young mulatto girl standing at attention outside.

“and are you nancy? good evening, nancy. i hear you are going to take care of me.” he stood still and looked hard at her.

a wave of pink went over her gold-coloured cheeks, and her eyes fell. “if i can please you, sir,” she said quietly, waiting for him to enter the chamber.

“oh, you do please me!” he laughed.

going into the room, martin glanced about: large, airy, not too much furniture, canopy bed with fresh muslin curtains. he opened one of the front windows and looked out over the yard, the mill, the woods across the creek. beyond the woods the blue, wavy slopes of the north mountain lay against the sky. the upper porch ran along outside the room; he put one leg out through the open window. “am i allowed to go on the veranda, girl? very strict rules in this house, i’ve heard tell.”

“certainly, sir. there’s a door in the hall goes out to the upper porch,” she said quickly, correcting an implied reproach on the house.

martin drew in his foot. “that will be more convenient. and now you can unpack my trunk.”

“it’s locked, sir.”

“lordy, i forgot!” his sole-leather trunk had been placed on a chair. he unlocked it and threw back the lid. “there. now you put my clothes where you think they ought to go, and i’ll watch you, so i’ll know where to find them.” he pulled off his coat and waistcoat, threw them on the bed, and sat down in the usual guest-chamber rocking-chair. nancy took the discarded upper garments and hung them in the clothes-press. she opened the bureau drawers and stood timidly hesitating before the trunk.

“would you like your collars an’ neckcloths kept in the upper drawer, sir?”

he was just lighting a cigar. “follow your own notion. we have a slut of a housekeeper at home. i never know where to find anything.”

she went noiselessly to work, moving back and forth between the bureau and the press. young colbert sat with his feet on the low window sill, enjoying his cigar.

“does my aunt object to smoking?” he asked presently.

“oh, no, sir! she likes to have the gen’lemen smoke.”

after putting away the shirts and nightshirts, nancy lifted the top tray and stood perplexed by the confusion she found below.

“if you don’t mind, sir, i’ll take the coats an’ pants downstairs direc’ly, an’ press ’em.”

“that’s a good idea.”

the shoes and boots she found stuffed full of dirty socks and soiled underwear. she made a bundle of the rumpled linen and put it outside the door. she was embarrassed because the guest watched her so closely.

“anybody ever tell you you’re a damned pretty girl, nancy?” she heard as she stooped over the trunk.

“no, sir.”

martin would have done better to change his tone. but he did not see her face, and went on teasingly:

“you tryin’ to make me believe none of these country jakes around here been makin’ up to you? you can’t fool me!”

“there’s good, kind folks on back creek, mr. martin.”

“you don’t say, honey!” martin laughed, stretching his loose shoulders.

nancy didn’t like his laugh, not at all! she took up an armful of coats and trousers, snatched the pile of soiled linen outside the door, and vanished so quickly that when the young man turned from throwing his cigar end out of the window, he was amazed to find her gone.