“Maybe,” Phillip answered doubtfully. “But I reckon we care more about home than you folks in the North do.”
“I guess you do. And if that’s a sample over there I can’t say that I blame you. By Jove, Phil, that is sweet!”
A long turn in the road had brought into view a broad expanse of winter turf rising gently from a country road to a wooded promontory on which rested—there is no better word—a gleaming white residence formed of a central structure two stories high, from which on either side lesser buildings stretched away and were lost behind the trees. The sun shone warmly, brightly on the tall pillars and dignified front as though it loved them.
“Yes, that’s Wancrewe’s View,” said Phillip. “We’re getting into my country now,” he added with a trace of proud proprietorship in his voice. “Things look different already, don’t they?”
At the next station the platform was well filled with persons who had an unmistakable air of purpose and an equally unmistakable appearance of being dressed up. But there was a gravity in their faces that John wondered at until presently there came into view, from the direction of the baggage car, a fresh pine box that told the story. The Major was one of the bearers. He had discarded his blue cap, and his lean, tanned face wore an expression of sympathy that John could not think aught but genuine. The box was borne, slowly, reverently, down the narrow platform to the baggage shed and there placed upon a truck. The throng outside was silent; the engine purred softly somewhere out of sight, and the only sound was the low directions of a little man in black who helped settle the box on the truck. Presently the Major passed under the window and entered the rear of the car. From a cupboard he brought forth a pasteboard box and, as he did so, his eye fell on Phillip. He paused at the door.
“It’s Tom Culverson,” he explained. “He died up in Pennsylvania Tuesday last. That’s his sister, the little lady with the light hair.”
“Oh,” said Phillip. “He was a friend of my father, Major. I remember him. I’m sorry. Are those flowers?”
“Yes, just a few roses I got in Washington. I don’t reckon there’ll be many flowers, Phil.”
He passed out with his box, and John, watching from the window, saw him present them to the “little lady with the light hair,” a little lady with tired, tear-washed eyes who raised her handkerchief to her face as she accepted them and held the Major’s hand a long while. John’s last conscious glimpse as the train moved slowly away was of “the little lady with the light hair.” She held the Major’s tribute in her hands while her eyes, with something in them almost approaching a smile, followed the train.
“I guess we’re a bit late, aren’t we?” he asked.