Phillip consulted his watch.
“A little, I reckon; about ten minutes. Why?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Maybe we’ll make it up,” said Phillip apologetically.
“Nonsense,” answered John softly; “I’m glad of it.”
The hills grew larger, softer in outline; the soil, where it was not hidden under bluegrass, looked darker and richer; the country had a more finished appearance hereabouts. Phillip pointed out the places of interest: here a stream that trickled through a wooded bottom where, just out of sight from the railroad, there was wonderful fishing to be had; yonder a hill where wild turkey had been killed no later than a year ago; in the distance a purple promontory of timbered hillside where deer were still extant—according to the stories told in the evenings in front of crackling logs; nearer at hand an old brick house, almost hemmed in by modern barn buildings, a stock farm of wide repute. John looked, admired, questioned; and absent-mindedly filled a fresh pipe.
“It’ll be a short one,” warned Phillip, “for we’ll be at Melville in about ten minutes. I hope Margey meets us.”
“Is it likely?” asked John. The possibility of meeting Phil’s sister so soon had not occurred to him. For some reason which he did not try to explain it made him rather breathless for a moment.
“Yes, Margey’s fond of driving,” answered his companion; “and if she can get away from the house she’ll probably come for us herself and let Bob bring a wagon for the baggage.” He began stuffing magazines and books into his bags and John followed his example. There was a long blast from the engine whistle, and the major, rising from his seat where for ten miles or so he had been in conversation with an elderly passenger, announced “Melville! Melville!” and gathered up the packages of a middle-aged lady, preparatory to helping her off the train. John was struggling into his coat when the train slowed down. Stooping, he looked out onto a straggling village street, crossed by a trickling stream, a weather-beaten platform and a station building sadly in need of a new coat of whitewash. The usual group of idlers, white and coloured, were on hand. John picked up his luggage and followed Phillip from the car, bidding good-by to the Major ceremoniously, as to a host.
“I guess your sister didn’t come,” he said as he looked over the half-dozen vehicles in sight. But Phillip didn’t hear him. He was shaking hands heartily with a young, very black and smiling negro.