Frances had turned towards town, and was driving smartly past Chancellor's and Anderson's, bookstore and drug store and loitering grounds of the students, though the porches were empty now, along the long street, across the high bridge spanning the narrow valley through which the Southern railroad swept into the town, on down a steep hill; and then she pulled sharply to the left, down a rough road past negro cabins, another sharp hill, across a clear mountain stream, and they were in the country. "You've never been this way before," repeated Frances as she began to point out the features of the country. She spoke of house and cabin and mill; but Lawson's eyes were turned towards the misty mountains. The keen air blew in his face, the frosty touch sent his pulses tingling: the smell of green grass and falling leaves and fresh earth was abroad, and over there, to right to left, swam the mountain-tops in purple mists. Each hill they topped showed vistas of hill and valley and far-reaching crest. The horse went at a good pace; his driver was the most companionable of drivers; Lawson was absurdly happy. "What's that little blue flower?" he asked, pointing to a starry bloom, daisy-shaped, blossoming on a weed-like stem. "That's another of the beauties for which we thank Jefferson, that and the Scotch broom in the woods; you saw it?" "But where does this come from?" "Don't ask me! Scotland, also, perhaps; here we are!" She pulled up sharply before a cabin by the road, and, before he could take the reins she threw down, sprang out. Lawson sat feeling like a chagrined schoolboy. It was one of the small accomplishments of which he was proud, to lift a woman from carriage or saddle. He had strong muscles well trained, and he had a fashion of putting his hands at the woman's waist and giving her a lift, quick, light, and sure, and setting her on her feet with a look of pleased astonishment in her eyes; now he sat holding the reins like any good boy and watching the flutter of a blue skirt around the clusters of zinnias and marigolds by the cabin corner. And then he heard voices and laughter and the squawks of terrified chickens. Frances was coming back,--a colored woman, with a bunch of chickens in either hand, walking by her side. He listened to the woman with intense amusement. "Why don't you say thanky?" she was demanding. Frances only laughed. "I done tole yuh how pretty yuh is; now why don't yuh say thanky?" "She ought to, that she ought," called Lawson from the trap. "Hi, honey!" cried the delighted darkey, "is dat him? La, chile, now he suttenly is a nice beau!" "Aunt Roxie," said Frances haughtily, "put the chickens in the back of the trap. You're sure you've got them tied all right?" "'Co'se I is!" Lawson, delighted with Frances' discomfiture, was fussing about, helping the colored woman.