restaurant, where they gave you lemonade in a glass bowl and some people
washed their fingers in it; of the rotunda of the Marlboro, the mammoth
hotel which had grown up on the site of the old Calhoun
House,--distressing crowds and multitudes of people everywhere.

Thomas Jefferson, awe-struck and gaping, found himself foot-loose for a
time in the Marlboro rotunda while his father talked with a man who
wanted to bargain for the entire output of the Paradise furnace by the
year. The commercial transaction touched him lightly; but the moving
groups, the imported bell-boys, the tesselated floors, frescoed ceiling
and plush-covered furniture--these bit deeply. Could this be South
Tredegar, the place that had hitherto figured chiefly to him as
"court-day" town and the residence of his preacher uncle? It seemed
hugely incredible.

After the conference with the iron buyer they crossed the street to the
railway station; and again Thomas Jefferson was foot-loose while his
father was closeted with some one in the manager's office.

An express train, with hissing air-brakes, Solomon-magnificent sleeping
cars, and a locomotive large enough to swallow whole the small affair
that used to bring the once-a-day train from Atlanta, had just backed
in, and the boy took its royal measure with eager and curious eyes,
walking slowly up one side of it and down the other.

At the rear of the string of Pullmans was a private car, with a deep
observation platform, much polished brass railing, and sundry other
luxurious appointments, apparent even to the eye of unsophistication.
Thomas Jefferson spelled the name in the medallion, "Psyche,"--spelled
it without trying to pronounce it--and then turned his attention to the