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 the station, but it was slow work, since phillip was required to stop every step or two and shake hands. john was impressively introduced to the station agent, the foremost dry goods dealer, two farmers, and several[207] others whose names and occupations escaped him. his size, topping phillip by almost a head as he did, visibly aroused the interest of his new acquaintances, and a good many eyes were fixed upon him as he followed phillip around the corner.

by the rear platform stood a two-seated buckboard of light wood, in the shafts of which a large red bay tossed and turned his head restively. on the front seat, very erect, with whip and lines held firmly in gloved hands, sat a girl in brown covert coat and soft felt hat. even as john caught his first glimpse of her she turned and saw them. a flush mounted into her cheeks as her glance passed phillip to the tall, broad-shouldered stranger.

“hello, phil, dear!” she called, and carefully changing whip and reins to her left hand, she stretched the other one forth over the wheel. “steady, cardinal; be still! don’t you know your master, sir?”

“howdy, sis?” phillip took the hand and, leaning over, kissed her. “margey, this is john north; my sister, john. easy, cardinal, you silly brute! where’s bob? oh, bob, hold his head until we get in.”

john took the gloved fingers in his own big palm[208] and received from them a firm, very manlike pressure. two dark and serious eyes looked into his and a soft voice said:

“how do you do, mr. north? it was very kind of you to come with phil. mamma will be awfully pleased. she feared toward the last that you would change your mind.”

“the kindness is yours, miss ryerson. it’s good of you and your mother to want to be bothered with a stranger, especially at christmas time. i told phil when he invited me to come that i feared you’d think me something of an interloper, but the temptation was too strong; and here i am. if i’m in the way, please pack me off home again.” margaret ryerson smiled and made room for him beside her on the front seat.

“if you stay until your welcome wears out,” she answered, “i fear your studies will suffer mightily. mamma is quite ready to adopt you, mr. north. do you want to be adopted?”

“nothing would please me more. i think, though, you’d better try me a few days beforehand; i wouldn’t like to have you disappointed when it was too late.”

“that’s all right,” cried phillip. “i’ll guarantee[209] him. put the sticks in here, bob, and the guns. all ready now. let him go. remember, margey, you’ve got two precious young lives in your care; so careful at the corners!”

cardinal had become highly impatient at the long wait, and while they threaded their way through the quaint, straggling little town he demanded all of margaret’s attention. out on the hard country road, however, he ceased his tantrums and settled down to a long, even trot that was good to behold. maid, excited by the homecoming and the release from long confinement, dashed hither and thither barking rapturously. phillip leaned over the back of the front seat between his sister and john and hurled a veritable fusillade of questions at the former. very soon john dropped out of the conversation altogether, save when his attention was called to something by the way, and he leaned back comfortably, glad to have his thoughts to himself for awhile. by turning his head slightly, as though in attention to what phillip was saying, it was possible for him to study margaret ryerson without appearing to do so, and he made the most of the opportunity.

she was all that the photograph on phillip’s[210] mantel had led him to expect; all and the much more that is represented by the difference between cardboard and real flesh and blood. a writer may catalogue carefully every feature of a woman’s face, every contour of her body, every colour and hue of hair and eyes and skin, and when he has finished, the mental picture held by the reader will no more resemble the woman seen by the writer than an outline drawing resembles an oil painting; and this because no writer has it in his power to describe what we call the expression of the face so that another can behold it. expression is the outward reflection of the personality within; it is the soul looking forth from the body. reynolds says: “in portraits, the grace, and, we may add, the likeness, consists more in the general air than in the exact similitude of every feature.” without expression there can be no portrait; only paint and canvas. having set forth the impossibility of his task and having thoroughly discouraged himself at the outset, the writer now follows in the footsteps of all others of his kind, assured of failure.

margaret ryerson was a trifle over medium height and seemed slighter than was really the case, possibly because of a gracefulness that was apparent[211] even in the slightest turn of the head or lifting of the hand; a gracefulness possessed in a less marked degree by phillip, and which, in her case as well as his, was largely due to a lifelong acquaintance with the saddle. her resemblance to her brother did not end there: her features were his softened, feminized, and the contour of the face, although more rounded and delicate, recalled his. her hair was deeply brown, but held warmer colour than phillip’s, while her eyes were at least a shade darker. they were serious eyes, and to-day, at least, shadowed as they were by the falling brim of her felt hat, impressed john as being somewhat inscrutable; nor could he later ever quite convince himself that this first impression was wrong.

for a southerner margaret’s complexion was light, and her cheeks held more colour than is looked for in women born below mason and dixon’s line. beside her’s, phillip’s face looked sallow. her mouth was small and her lips were less full than her brother’s. no face was ever yet formed quite perfect, and margaret’s held one fault at least: the chin was a trifle too prominent for absolute symmetry. and yet that very imperfection helped to form a whole that many persons thought beautiful.[212] john, at least, saw nothing that he would have had altered. he thought her lovely, and experienced an odd and delightful sort of pride in her, as though she were a discovery or creation of his own.

he had hoped for a good deal, as he could see now when he found opportunity to compare his preconceived ideas with the reality, and was not disappointed; on the contrary, the real margaret ryerson far excelled the ideal. the impression he received of her that afternoon while spinning over the undulating country road between far-stretching fields and wooded hilltops, and one which he retained ever afterward, was a very wholesome one. her general expression was serious, though far from somber, and her smiles, frequent as they were, were little ones in which the deep brown eyes seemed more concerned than the lips. john found that she did not laugh often; and when she did it was like a brook that ripples all the merrier for being confined for a space. yet, while her face expressed gravity, it told no tale of unhappiness or dissatisfaction; rather quiet contentment, a thankful joy of existence that found expression in graciousness and kindness rather than in exuberance of talk and laughter. here, john told himself, was a woman[213] whose love could not be easily gained, and was therefore better worth the winning. and he meant to win it. he had meant to ever since he had received her letter, and now his resolution was strengthened and intensified. he spoke for the first time in many minutes:

“it’s beautiful here,” he said. margaret turned to him and smiled. her eyes were questioning.

“you like it?” she asked.

“yes,” he replied simply. he turned to phillip. “you didn’t tell me it was like this, phil; you never did it half justice.”

phillip’s gaze moved over the scene. the sunlight was full and strong and bathed everything in an amber glow. there was autumn in the air and spring in the earth; nowhere, despite that here and there a pond was covered thinly with ice, was winter more than a suggestion. the sky was intensely blue; the distant hills were mauve; the nearer ones deeply brown with timber or freshly saffron with turf in which summer seemed only hiding for the moment. phillip smiled softly, happily.

“i couldn’t,” he answered almost below his breath.

they had left the village some three miles to the[214] east and were now topping a hill, cardinal taking it with long, effortless strides and tudor maid trotting along at the edge of the road with happy eye and lolling tongue. as they began the short descent a new vista opened out before them. half a dozen clusters of buildings were in sight, dotted over several miles of tilled field and meadow. pillars of wood smoke rose purple and slender and straight into the golden atmosphere. to the right at the foot of the hill the road turned toward a ribbon of brush and timber that hid the slow meandering of a creek whose course the eye could trace for fully two miles; to the left it ran straight and ascensive toward a thickly wooded ridge which stretched, like a miniature mountain range, north and south—a “hog-back,” decisively dividing the present tableland from the valley beyond. where the road parted a branch of the creek had formed a little pond, about the margins of which a group of laughing, shouting children were vainly striving to find an ice-crust that would bear their weight. as the carriage passed they paused to watch and utter shrill greetings. one diminutive youngster held up in triumph a pair of shining skates for their awed inspection. margaret returned their greetings. the occupant[215] of the back seat was recognized, and they passed on to a chorus of “howdy, mister phil!”

john now saw that where the present road parted a second one began and led away in broad curves behind rows of leafless trees toward the ridge, and that somewhere in that direction spirals of smoke were ascending and specks of white were now and then discernible through the timber. directly ahead of them huge iron gates between stone pillars were almost hidden by a cluster of massive oaks. cardinal stopped with his muzzle against the rusted grilling and phillip leaped to the ground and, officiously aided by maid, threw open the creaking gates. cardinal sidled through, the iron portals clanged back into place, phillip sprang up, and they sped onward around a long curve of well-kept roadway between the gray and brown trunks of oaks and chestnuts. margaret turned to john and smiled:

“welcome to elaine,” she said.