“Newton, is your father living?” asked Lesponts. “No, but my mother is,” he said; “she still lives at the old home in the country.” From this the talk had gone on, and nearly all had contributed to it, even the most reticent of them, drawn out by the universal sympathy which the subject had called forth. The great city, with all its manifold interests, was forgotten, and the men of the world went back to their childhood and early life in little villages or on old plantations, and told incidents of the time when the outer world was unknown, and all things had those strange and large proportions which the mind of childhood gives. Old times were ransacked and Christmas experiences in them were given without stint, and the season was voted, without dissent, to have been far ahead of Christmas now. Presently, one of the party said: “Did any of you ever spend a Christmas on the cars? If you have not, thank Heaven, and pray to be preserved from it henceforth, for I’ve done it, and I tell you it’s next to purgatory. I spent one once, stuck in a snow-drift, or almost stuck, for we were ten hours late, and missed all connections, and the Christmas I had expected to spend with friends, I passed in a nasty car with a surly Pullman conductor, an impudent mulatto porter, and a lot of fools, all of whom could have murdered each other, not to speak of a crying baby whose murder was perhaps the only thing all would have united on.” This harsh speech showed that the subject was about exhausted, and someone, a man who had come in only in time to hear the last speaker, had just hazarded the remark, in a faint imitation of an English accent, that the sub-officials in this country were a surly, ill-conditioned lot, anyhow, and always were as rude as they dared to be, when Lesponts, who had looked at the speaker lazily, said: “Yes, I have spent a Christmas on a sleeping-car, and, strange to say, I have a most delightful recollection of it.” This was surprising enough to have gained him a hearing anyhow, but the memory of the occasion was evidently sufficiently strong to carry Lesponts over obstacles, and he went ahead. “Has any of you ever taken the night train that goes from here South through the Cumberland and Shenandoah Valleys, or from Washington to strike that train?” No one seemed to have done so, and he went on: “Well, do it, and you can even do it Christmas, if you get the right conductor. It’s well worth doing the first chance you get, for it’s almost the prettiest country in the world that you go through; there is nothing that I’ve ever seen lovelier than parts of the Cumberland and Shenandoah Valleys, and the New River Valley is just as pretty,--that background of blue beyond those rolling hills, and all,--you know, McPheeters?” McPheeters nodded, and he proceeded: