Ahead of them his fellow-travelers, one a Keith cousin and the other a friend, waved back and disappeared in a bend of the road; and as Claudia took up the reins he turned toward her.

“Have you been waiting long?  Are you sure you are not cold?” he asked.

“Cold!  On a day like this?” The color in her face was brilliant.  “We don’t often have weather of this sort, and to stay indoors is impossible.  I love it!  It’s so Christmasy, if it isn’t Southern.  Did you have a very dreadful trip down?  It takes courage to make it.”

“Courage!” He laughed and tucked the robe closer around her.  “It was the most interesting trip I ever took.  This is a very beautiful country.”

“We think it is.”  She turned slightly and looked around her.  The road from the boat-landing wound gradually up the incline to the ridge above the river; and as they reached its top the view of the latter was unbroken, and broad and blue it stretched between its snow-clad banks, serene and silent.

Laine’s eyes swept the scene before him.  The brilliant sunshine on field and river and winding road for a moment was blinding.  The biting air stung his face, and life seemed suddenly a splendid, joyous thing.  The girl beside him was looking ahead, as if at something to be seen there; and again he turned to her.

“You love it here?”

“Love it?” Her eyes were raised to his.  “Everything in it, of it, about it!” With her left hand she brushed away the strands of hair the wind had blown across her eyes.  “It is my home.”

“A woman can make a home anywhere.  A man—­”

“No, she can’t—­that is, I couldn’t.  I’d smother in New York.  It is wonderful to go to.  I love its stir and color and the splendid things it is doing; but you can’t listen to the wind in the trees, or watch the stars come out, or let your other self have a chance.”  She turned to him.  “We’re very slow and queer down here.  Are you sure you won’t mind coming for Christmas?”

Laine leaned forward and straightened the robe, and out of his face the color faded.  He was only one of the several guests.  “You are very good to let me come,” he said, quietly.  “I have not thanked you.  I don’t know how to thank you.  Christmas by one’s self—­”

“Is unrighteous!” She nodded gaily and touched the horse with the whip.  “There’s Elmwood!  There’s my home!  Please like Virginia, Mr. Vermont man!”

Before he could answer, the sleigh stopped at the entrance to the road leading to the big house, and at the door of the little lodge by the always-open gate stood a short, stout colored woman, hands on her hips, and on her head a gaily colored kerchief.

Laine was introduced.  Mammy Malaprop was known by reputation, but no words could make of Malaprop a picture, and in deep delight Laine watched her as she curtsied in a manner all her own.

“How you do, suh!  How you do!  A superfluous Christmas to you, suh!  I’m sorry you didn’t git heah ‘fore de war.  Livin’ nowadays ain’t more’n shucks from de corn of what it used to be.  Is dey all heah now, Miss Claudia?”