"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?"
"I believe so. I am going to bring Mr. Laine down for some hoe-cakes and buttermilk after Christmas, and you might tell him some of the stories you used to tell us when we were children. He lives in New York, and—"
"He do! I hope he got himself petrified on the way down, for they tell me 'tis a den of promiscuity, and all the nations of the earth done took their seats in it. I knowed a woman who lived there once. She near 'bout work herself to death, and she say she couldn't have stood it if it hadn't been for the hopes of a glorious immorality what was awaitin' her when she died—" And Mammy Malaprop's hands waved cheerfully until the sleigh was lost to sight.
From the public road skirting the Elmwood land the private one, tree-bordered by century-old elms, leading to the terraced lawn, wound for some three-quarters of a mile, and as they approached the house Laine saw it was architecturally of a type unseen before. The central building, broad, two stories high, with sloping roof and deep-pillared portico, by itself would not have been unusual; but the slightly semi-circular corridors connecting it with the two wings gave it a grace and beauty seldom found in the straight lines of the period in which it had been built, and the effect was impressive. At the foot of the terrace a little colored boy was blowing ardently a little trumpet, giving shrill greeting to the stranger guest, and as they came closer he took off his hat and held it in his hand.