Then a twist in the road showed them that the valley broadened widely, with ranges of low hills on either hand. Near the river they saw a series of natural terraces, which a fanciful eye might have regarded as suggesting shallow benches of a great amphitheatre. The hills were wooded, and so was part of the lower ground, with dense swamp growth here and there. The road hugged the base of the hills to the left. Evidently it was much traveled, though there were few houses in sight. Lon offered explanation of this.
“Big farms along here, mostly. Been owned by the same families pretty nigh ever since Adam and Eve came to the jumpin’ off place. Don’t quite believe that, eh? Well, then, I’ll compromise, and make it since the white folks came into this deestrict. But above here a piece there’s quite a settlement. The Grants, though, belong down here in the old settler class. Old Nahum Grant, he was one of the fust white men to—— But, hullo! There’s the house now!”
The boys looked in the direction in which his whip pointed. They saw a comfortable farmhouse, big and roomy, and flanked by huge barns. Then they were turning in at the gate, and pulling up before the house, and the door was opening, and Mrs. Grant, more beaming than ever, was bustling out to greet them.
“My soul and body! but it does me good to see you all!” she exclaimed. “Take a mopey, draggly day like this, and I didn’t know whether you’d sorter back out about coming way out here. But you didn’t—and there’s quite a lot of you. My, my, but I’m tickled! There haven’t been so many young folks at the old place since I don’t know when!”
“Yes, ma’am, we’re all here,” Lon made answer. “That is, unless three-four fell out of the sleigh a mile or two back. With a load like this a feller really ought to stop and take account of stock ’bout once in so often.”
“Bless me, if ’tain’t Lon Gates!” cried Mrs. Grant delightedly. “I vow, but it’s a sight for sore eyes!”
“Same to you, ma’am, and three or four times over!” Lon responded gallantly. Then he surrendered the reins to a farm-hand, who came from the barn, and stepped to the porch, where Mrs. Grant was shaking hands with the boys, duly presented in turn by Sam.
Mr. Grant came out of the house to join in the welcome to the visitors. He was a thin, elderly man, with a wisp of gray whisker, a quiet manner, and an eye which had a humorous twinkle. Then he and his wife shepherded the party indoors.
Paul Varley glanced about him curiously. The low ceilings, the home-made rugs on the floor, the kerosene lamps, the many rocking chairs, the big horsehair covered lounge—these things quite matched his expectations, but there were other things which jarred them. The piano in a corner of the great living-room was a handsome instrument; the gilded coils of a very modern steam radiator suggested that the wide fireplace now served ornamental rather than useful purposes. There were thriving plants at the windows, and on the center table lay a number of magazines and illustrated weekly papers. Against one wall stood a tall clock, which drew Paul like a magnet. His father was somewhat of a collector, and the son had picked up some bits of information about ancient timepieces. This one, unless he were much mistaken, was very valuable.
“My great-grandfather made that,” Mr. Grant explained. “That is, he had it made.”