The house at Ferry Farm, which was home to him, was a good four miles by the road, but by paths through the woods and fields, and a foot-bridge across a creek, it was barely a mile. It took him but a short time to make it, but before he could reach the house he saw the coach and outriders dash into sight and draw up before the porch. The old soldier jumped from the box and opened the door and let down the steps, and the earl descended in state. On the porch stood Uncle Jasper, the venerable black butler, in a suit of homespun, with a long white apron that reached from his chin to his knees. George saw him bowing and ushering the earl in. The outriders loosened their horses’ girths, and, after breathing them, led them to the watering-trough in the stable-lot back of the house. They then watered the coach-horses, the coachman sitting in solitary magnificence on his box, while the old soldier stretched his legs by walking about the lot. George saw this as he came through the stable way, his dog still at his heels. Uncle Jasper was waiting for him on the back porch. “De madam,” he began, in a mysterious whisper, “will want you ter put on yo’ Sunday clo’es fo’ you come in ter see de Earl o’ Fairfax. He’s in de settin’-room now.” George understood very well, and immediately went to his room to change his hunting-clothes, which were the worse for both dirt and wear. It was a ceremonious age, and the formalities of dress and manners were very strictly observed. Meanwhile, in the sitting-room, on opposite sides of the fireplace, sat Madam Washington and the earl. Truly, the beauty that had distinguished Mary Ball remained with Madam Washington. Her figure was slight and delicate (not from her had her eldest son inherited his brawn and muscle), and in her severely simple black gown she looked even slighter than usual. Her complexion was dazzlingly fair, and little rings of chestnut hair escaped from her widow’s cap; but her fine blue eyes were the counterpart of her eldest son’s. The room was plainly furnished, even for the times, but scrupulously neat. A rag-carpet covered the middle of the floor, while around the edges the polished planks were bare. In one corner a small harpsichord was open, with music on the rack. Dimity curtains shaded the small-paned windows, and a great fire sparkled in the large fireplace. Over the mantel hung the portrait of a handsome young man in a satin coat with lace ruffles. This was a portrait of Augustine Washington in his youth. Opposite it was a portrait of Madam Washington as a girl--a lovely young face and figure. There were one or two other portraits, and a few pieces of silver upon a mahogany buffet opposite the harpsichord--relics of Wakefield, the Westmoreland plantation where George was born, and of which the house had burned to the ground in the absence of the master, and much of the household belongings had been destroyed.