The next day, according to appointment, I went to Maizeville.  John Jones met me at the station, and drove me in his box-sleigh to see the farm he had written of in his laconic note.  I looked at him curiously as we jogged along over the melting snow.  The day was unclouded for a wonder, and the sun proved its increasing power by turning the sleigh-tracks in the road into gleaming rills.  The visage of my new acquaintance formed a decided contrast to the rubicund face of the beef-eating marketman.  He was sandy even to his eyebrows and complexion.  His scraggy beard suggested poverty of soil on his lantern jaws.  His frame was as gaunt as that of a scare-crow, and his hands and feet were enormous.  He had one redeeming feature, however—­a pair of blue eyes that looked straight at you and made you feel that there was no “crookedness” behind them.  His brief letter had led me to expect a man of few words, but I soon found that John Jones was a talker and a good-natured gossip.  He knew every one we met, and was usually greeted with a rising inflection, like this, “How are you, John?”

We drove inland for two or three miles.

“No, I didn’t crack up the place, and I ain’t a-goin’ to,” said my real-estate agent.  “As I wrote you, you can see for yourself when we get there, and I’ll answer all questions square.  I’ve got the sellin’ of the property, and I mean it shall be a good bargain, good for me and good for him who buys.  I don’t intend havin’ any neighbors around blamin’ me for a fraud;” and that is all he would say about it.

On we went, over hills and down dales, surrounded by scenery that seemed to me beautiful beyond all words, even in its wintry aspect.

“What mountain is that standing off by itself?” I asked.

“Schunemunk,” he said.  “Your place—­well, I guess it will be yours before plantin’-time comes—­faces that mountain and looks up the valley between it and the main highlands on the left.  Yonder’s the house, on the slope of this big round hill, that’ll shelter you from the north winds.”

I shall not describe the place very fully now, preferring that it should be seen through the eyes of my wife and children, as well as my own.

“The dwelling appears old,” I said.

“Yes; part of it’s a good deal more’n a hundred years old.  It’s been added to at both ends.  But there’s timbers in it that will stand another hundred years.  I had a fire made in the livin’-room this mornin’, to take off the chill, and we’ll go in and sit down after we’ve looked the place over.  Then you must come and take pot-luck with us.”

At first I was not at all enthusiastic, but the more I examined the place, and thought it over, the more it grew on my fancy.  When I entered the main room of the cottage, and saw the wide, old-fashioned fireplace, with its crackling blaze, I thawed so rapidly that John Jones chuckled.  “You’re amazin’ refreshin’ for a city chap.  I guess I’ll crack on another hundred to the price.”