At the next station the platform was well filled with persons who had an unmistakable air of purpose and an equally unmistakable appearance of being dressed up. But there was a gravity in their faces that John wondered at until presently there came into view, from the direction of the baggage car, a fresh pine box that told the story. The Major was one of the bearers. He had discarded his blue cap, and his lean, tanned face wore an expression of sympathy that John could not think aught but genuine. The box was borne, slowly, reverently, down the narrow platform to the baggage shed and there placed upon a truck. The throng outside was silent; the engine purred softly somewhere out of sight, and the only sound was the low directions of a little man in black who helped settle the box on the truck. Presently the Major passed under the window and entered the rear of the car. From a cupboard he brought forth a pasteboard box and, as he did so, his eye fell on Phillip. He paused at the door. “It’s Tom Culverson,” he explained. “He died up in Pennsylvania Tuesday last. That’s his sister, the little lady with the light hair.” “Oh,” said Phillip. “He was a friend of my father, Major. I remember him. I’m sorry. Are those flowers?” “Yes, just a few roses I got in Washington. I don’t reckon there’ll be many flowers, Phil.” He passed out with his box, and John, watching from the window, saw him present them to the “little lady with the light hair,” a little lady with tired, tear-washed eyes who raised her handkerchief to her face as she accepted them and held the Major’s hand a long while. John’s last conscious glimpse as the train moved slowly away was of “the little lady with the light hair.” She held the Major’s tribute in her hands while her eyes, with something in them almost approaching a smile, followed the train. “I guess we’re a bit late, aren’t we?” he asked. Phillip consulted his watch. “A little, I reckon; about ten minutes. Why?” “Oh, nothing.” “Maybe we’ll make it up,” said Phillip apologetically. “Nonsense,” answered John softly; “I’m glad of it.” The hills grew larger, softer in outline; the soil, where it was not hidden under bluegrass, looked darker and richer; the country had a more finished appearance hereabouts. Phillip pointed out the places of interest: here a stream that trickled through a wooded bottom where, just out of sight from the railroad, there was wonderful fishing to be had; yonder a hill where wild turkey had been killed no later than a year ago; in the distance a purple promontory of timbered hillside where deer were still extant――according to the stories told in the evenings in front of crackling logs; nearer at hand an old brick house, almost hemmed in by modern barn buildings, a stock farm of wide repute. John looked, admired, questioned; and absent-mindedly filled a fresh pipe. “It’ll be a short one,” warned Phillip, “for we’ll be at Melville in about ten minutes. I hope Margey meets us.”