There had been a shower, and the sun glistened on the drops on grass and flowers, and the great trees hung heavy over the clay road.  At last they came to a white gate in the picket fence, in sight of a rambling wooden house with a veranda in front covered with honeysuckle.  And then he saw the Colonel, in white marseilles, smoking a cigar.  This, indeed, was real country.

As Stephen trod the rough flags between the high grass which led toward the house, Colonel Carvel rose to his full height and greeted him.

“You are very welcome, sir,” he said gravely.  “The Judge is asleep now,” he added.  “I regret to say that we had a little argument this morning, and my daughter tells me it will be well not to excite him again to-day.  Jinny is reading to him now, or she would be here to entertain you, Mr. Brice.  Jackson!” cried Mr. Carvel, “show Mr. Brice to his room.”

Jackson appeared hurriedly, seized Stephen’s bag, and led the way upstairs through the cool and darkened house to a pretty little room on the south side, with matting, and roses on the simple dressing-table.  After he had sat awhile staring at these, and at the wet flower-garden from between the slats of his shutters, he removed the signs of the railroad upon him, and descended.  The Colonel was still on the porch, in his easy-chair.  He had lighted another, cigar, and on the stand beside him stood two tall glasses, green with the fresh mint.  Colonel Carvel rose, and with his own hand offered one to Stephen.

“Your health, Mr. Brice,” he said, “and I hope you will feel at home here, sir.  Jackson will bring you anything you desire, and should you wish to drive, I shall be delighted to show you the country.”

Stephen drank that julep with reverence, and then the Colonel gave him a cigar.  He was quite overcome by this treatment of a penniless young Yankee.  The Colonel did not talk politics—­such was not his notion of hospitality to a stranger.  He talked horse, and no great discernment on Stephen’s part was needed to perceive that this was Mr. Carvel’s hobby.

“I used to have a stable, Mr. Brice, before they ruined gentleman’s sport with these trotters ten years ago.  Yes sir, we used to be at Lexington one week, and Louisville the next, and over here on the Ames track after that.  Did you ever hear of Water Witch and Netty Boone?”

Yes, Stephen had, from Mr. Jack Brinsmade.

The Colonel’s face beamed.

“Why, sir,” he cried, “that very nigger, Ned, who drove you here from the cars-he used to ride Netty Boone.  Would you believe that, Mr. Brice?  He was the best jockey ever strode a horse on the Elleardsville track here.  He wore my yellow and green, sir, until he got to weigh one hundred and a quarter.  And I kept him down to that weight a whole year, Mr. Brice.  Yes, sirree, a whole year.”

“Kept him down!” said Stephen.

“Why, yes, sir.  I had him wrapped in blankets and set in a chair with holes bored in the seat.  Then we lighted a spirit lamp under him.  Many a time I took off ten pounds that way.  It needs fire to get flesh off a nigger, sir.”