But she became calm, almost joyous, as she passed through mile after mile of tranquil landscape.

The war might as well have been on the other side of the Atlantic for any hint she now saw of it in the peaceful, sun-lit fields and woods, and streams of crystal spring-water.
She saw women busily engaged in their morning work about all the cabins and houses.

With bare and sinewy arms they beat up and down in tiresomely monotonous stroke the long-handled dashers of cedar churns standing in the wide, open "entries" of the "double-houses;" they arrayed their well-scalded milk crocks and jars where the sun's rays would still further sweeten them; they plied swift shuttles in the weaving sheds; they toiled over great, hemispherical kettles of dye-stuffs or soap, swinging from poles over open fires in the yard; they spread out long webs of jeans and linen on the grass to dry or bleach, and all the while they sang--sang the measured rhythm of familiar hymns in the high soprano of white women--sang wild, plaintive lyrics in the liquid contralto of negresses.

Men were repairing fences, and doing other Winter work in the fields, and from the woods came the ringing staccato of choppers.

She met on the road leisurely-traveling negro women, who louted low to her, and then as she passed, turn to gaze after her with feminine analysis and admiration for every detail of her attire.