CHAPTER II


Phil had finally reached the boys' room after the dance, his head in a
whirl of excitement. Sleep was the last thing he wished. His imagination
was on fire. He had heard of Southern hospitality. He had never dreamed
of such waste of good things, such joy in living, such genuine pleasure
in the meeting of friends and kinfolks. Custis had insisted on every boy
staying all night. A lot of them had stayed. The wide rooms bulged with
them. There were cots and pallets everywhere. He had seen the housemaids
and the menservants carrying them in after the dance. Their own room
contained four beds and as many pallets, and they were all full.

He tried to sleep and couldn't. He dozed an hour, waked at dawn and
began day-dreaming. There was no sense of weariness. His mind was too
alert. The great house, in which he was made to feel as much at home
as in the quiet cottage of his mother in Ohio, fascinated him with its
endless menservants, housemaids, serving boys, cooks, coachmen and
hostlers.

He thought of the contrast with the quiet efficiency and simplicity of
his mother's house. He could see her seated at the little table in the
center of the room, a snow-white cap on her head. The work of the house
had been done without a servant. It had been done so simply and quietly,
he had never been conscious of the fact that it was work at all. It had
seemed a ministry of love for her children. Their help had been given
with equal joy, unconscious of toil, her kitchen floor was always
spotless, with every pot and pan and shining dish in its place as if by