One by one, the days in which he had seen Claudia passed in review before him.  The turn of her head, the light on her hair, the poise of her body on her horse, bits of gay talk, the few long quiet ones, the look of eyes unafraid of life, light laughter, and sometimes quick frown and quicker speech, and, clearest of all, the evening in which she had told him the story, with Channing in her arms and Dorothea in his.  There had been few waking moments in which it had not repeated itself to him, and in his dreams the scene would change and the home would be theirs—­his home and hers—­and she would be telling him again what life should mean.

He had long known the name of the land in which he lived.  It was, indeed, a Lonely Land; but that it was of his own choosing he had not understood, nor had he cared to think all people were his people.  There was much that he must know.  He needed help, needed it infinitely.  If she would give it—­ A man, reeling slightly, came in the compartment, and, getting up, Laine went out quickly.  For a few moments he stood in the vestibule and let the air from a partly open door blow over him, then, with a glance at the stars, turned and came inside.

At Fredericksburg the next morning Laine turned to the negro hackman, who, with Chesterfieldian bows, was hovering over his baggage and boxes, and made inquiries of the boat, the time of leaving, of a hotel, of what there was to see during the hours of waiting; and before he understood how it happened he found himself and his paraphernalia in the shabby old hack and was told he would be taken to the boat at once.  He had never been to Virginia, had never seen a specimen of human nature such as now flourished a whip in one hand and with the other waved a battered and bruised silk hat toward the muddy street that led from the station to the town above, and with puzzled eyes he looked at the one before him.

“Yas, suh!  I knows jes’ exactly what ‘tis you want to be doin’, suh.  You jes’ set yourself right back in the carridge and I’ll take you and the baggige right down to the boat and put ’em in for you, and then me and you’ll go round and see this heah town.  I reckon you ain’t never been to this place before.  Is you all right now, suh?” The once shiny hat was put on the back of the grizzled gray head, a worn and torn robe was tucked around Laine’s knees, and before answer could be made the driver was on the box, the whip was cracked, and two sleepy old horses began the slight incline of the long street out of which they presently turned to go to the wharf and the boat tied loosely to it.

Half an hour later, bags and boxes having been stored in a state-room, a hasty survey of the boat made, and a few words exchanged with a blue-coated man of friendly manners concerning the hour of departure, Laine again got in the old ramshackle hack and for two hours was shown the honors and glories of the little town which had hitherto been but a name and forever after was to be a smiling memory.  Snow and slush covered its sidewalks, mud was deep in the middle of the streets, but the air went to the head with its stinging freshness, the sun shone brilliantly, and in the faces of the people was happy content.