"Is this the road," Grace answered, "over which you walked, at night, when you visited your uncle?"
"The very same, I suppose, for there's never a choice of roads between two unimportant places."
"Then I sha'n't complain," said Grace, nestling very close to her husband.
The outlook did not improve as the travellers came near to the village of Claybanks. Houses were more numerous, but most of them were very small, many were unpainted, and some were of rough logs. The fences, while exhibiting great variety of design, were almost uniform in shabbiness.
"Rather a dismal picture, isn't it?" asked Philip. "It suggests a kalsominer's attempt to copy a Corot."
"I'm keeping my eyes closed," Grace replied. "I'm going to defer being impressed by the town until a sunny day arrives."
"If you were to look about you now," said Philip, gloomily, "you'd see the fag end of nothing—the jumping-off place of the world. How my uncle succeeded in living here—still stranger in making money here—passes my comprehension."
The best room at the hotel proved to be quite clean, but as bare as a hotel chamber could be, and also very cold. Philip begged for one with a fire, but was told that all warmed rooms were already occupied by regular lodgers. Fortunately breakfast was being served. It consisted of fried pork, fried sausage, fried eggs, tough biscuits, butter of a flavor which the newest guests neither recalled nor approved, two kinds of pie, and coffee.
"If this is the best hotel Caleb could find for us, what can the worst be?" whispered Philip.