"An old school mate of your son John's, Donald McElroy."
"What! Captain McElroy, whom family and friends have mourned as dead these six months past? Come in, lad, come in!" and the door was flung wide open. "You'll be chilled to the bone in that drenching drizzle,—and your horse likewise. John! John! Here's an old school friend! Call the niggers, wife! Send one of them round for Captain McElroy's horse, and have on another back log! Bring out the rum and the peach brandy! The son of William McElroy would be welcome under all circumstances, but coming from the dead, as it were, and covered with honor, doubtless,—why, there's nothing in the town good enough for him."
The house was abustle by this time, negroes running to and fro, Mrs. Walker and John overwhelming me with welcoming attention, and the Elder alternately rattling the decanters and glasses, and ringing the heavy iron poker against the massive brass andirons, as he vigorously punched the logs into a brisker blaze. I had half forgotten the warmth and heartiness of a Scotch Irish welcome, and my eyes filled with tears at the familiar sound of it all, and the sight of John's kind, homely face wreathed with glad smiles.
How pleasant the flavor of the oily peach brandy, how genial the blaze of the hickory logs, how good to hear the rich voices and the slight accent, as they called over familiar names and faces, and told me the valley news!
"Are they all well at home?" was my first question.
"All well, the last we heard, and your father continues to be one of the most prosperous and respected men in the county, and your mother the best of housewives. Little Jean has grown into a beauty, and your father has built a big new barn, and is burning brick for a spacious dwelling to take the place of the old cabin," answered the Elder loquaciously, while Mrs. Walker superintended the maid Jinsey, serving me, upon a folding table placed at my elbow, a cavalry man's lunch—which means enough for three.
"And they thought me dead, Elder?"
"They feared it, lad, having heard that you fell wounded on the field at Chestnut Hill, were taken prisoner, and carried to the prison hospital in Philadelphia—death traps they are said to be. Your father hopes still, but your mother greets sair, and fears the very worst."
It was not easy to get away from my entertainers the next morning, but I was eager to be at home, and managed to be off by half past ten, despite their urgent hospitality, and their disinclination to have my horse brought around.
"It was communion Sabbath at the Stone Church," the Elder had insisted, "and my whole family would, without doubt, spend the day at the services; so I might as well take dinner with them, and ride home in the afternoon."