The house at Ferry Farm, which was home to him, was a good four miles by the road, but by paths through the woods and fields, and a foot-bridge across a creek, it was barely a mile. It took him but a short time to make it, but before he could reach the house he saw the coach and outriders dash into sight and draw up before the porch. The old soldier jumped from the box and opened the door and let down the steps, and the earl descended in state. On the porch stood Uncle Jasper, the venerable black butler, in a suit of homespun, with a long white apron that reached from his chin to his knees. George saw him bowing and ushering the earl in. The outriders loosened their horses’ girths, and, after breathing them, led them to the watering-trough in the stable-lot back of the house. They then watered the coach-horses, the coachman sitting in solitary magnificence on his box, while the old soldier stretched his legs by walking about the lot. George saw this as he came through the stable way, his dog still at his heels. Uncle Jasper was waiting for him on the back porch.