The squire was so chilled that he could hardly stand. So far as I could judge, he had entirely recovered from his debauch. The captain led the way into the house, and I followed them with the trunk and the mail-bag. Mrs. Fishley bestowed a cordial welcome upon her brother-in-law, and placed the rocking-chair before the stove, in which there was still a good fire.
"Why, you are as wet as though you had been in the river!" cried Mrs. Fishley.
"It has been raining very hard," replied the squire, casting an anxious glance at me.
"What made you so late?" asked the captain. "I expected you by nine o'clock."
"I had some friends with me who were on the way to New Orleans, and I waited to see them off," answered the senator, with a shudder—not at the thought of his friends, perhaps, but on account of the chill which pervaded his frame.
"You'll catch your death a cold, Moses," interposed Mrs. Fishley. "I think you'd better take something, to guard against the chills."
"Yes; I'll give you a glass of corn whiskey, mixed with hot water," added the captain, taking up the suggestion.
"No, I think I won't take any," replied the squire, shaking his head.
"Hadn't you better?" persisted Mrs. Fishley. "It'll do you a heap of good."
"Not to-night, thank you!"