The night was intensely dark; not a star was to be seen in the sky; an occasional flash of lightning momentarily lit up surrounding objects, only to render the blackness more complete. Far down the road the old man's eyes caught a glimpse of the coach-lights bobbing up and down as the ponderous vehicle oscillated over the rough roads. Approaching slowly, like a wearied thing of life, the cumbrous stage at last appeared, made visible only by its own lamps, which the driver had lighted. The splashing of six horses along the miry roads and the dull rolling of the huge wheels made the vehicle heard long before it was seen. "Rube haint no outside passengers to-night," said the landlord, seeing that the top seats of the coach were vacant. "'Spose nobody'd want to ride out in the rain." "Here ye are at Lycan's inn," called out the driver to the inmates of the coach as he reined in his weary horses in front of the roadside tavern. Uncle Jerry as he was called, with his old, perforated tin lantern, came to open the stage door and show his guests into the house. Rube, the driver, tossing the reins to the stable-boy, climbed down from his lofty perch, and went into the bar-room to get "something hot" to warm his benumbed body. The landlord brought the wet and weary men into the room, where a great fire was blazing, and promised that supper should be ready by the time they were dry. The Southerner declared that he was much too dry within, though he was dripping wet without. Uncle Jerry smiling invited him into the bar-room. The Southerner needed no second invitation, and soon returned, saying that Virginia inns were not so bad after all. The lady had been shown to a private apartment, while the gentlemen were attempting to dry their clothing by the fire in the public room. The Southerner, who had been in much better humor since his visit to the bar, seemed now to look very philosophically upon his soaking and other inconveniences of travel. Our planter, Mr. Tompkins, sat in front of the pile of blazing logs, gazing at the bright, panoramic pictures constantly forming there. Sleeping or waking, darkness of the stage-coach and in those glowing embers, he saw but one picture, and its horrors were constantly haunting his mind. The other guests talked and laughed while their soaked clothes were drying, but Mr. Tompkins was silent, whether sitting or standing. Almost before their clothes were dry supper was announced, and they all repaired to the long, low dining room and seated themselves at the table. The supper, plain and substantial, was just suited to the needs of the hungry guests. The evening meal over, they returned to the sitting room. The Southerner had lit a cigar, and kept up a constant flow of conversation. "Virginia is too near the Free-soilers," he said, evidently directing his remarks to Mr. Tompkins; "don't they come over here and steal your niggers?" "They never have," Mr. Tompkins answered. "I take it for granted you own slaves?"