Major Stevens had not forgotten his promise to pay the Maryland village a visit.  If he had been disposed to forget his promise, which he was not, he would have been reminded of it by a letter which he received shortly after he returned home.  The envelope was small, and the superscription was written in a neat feminine hand.  Small as the envelope was, the letter contained much, for it was closely written and every page filled from top to bottom.  There were other letters and petitions from the grateful citizens asking him to be present at the barbecue and Fourth of July celebration at the town of Mariana.  None of these letters or invitations had stronger effect to induce him to take a journey to Maryland, than the closely penned missive did, though it was only a friendly letter.

Fernando set out the first of June.  Peace again reigned over the fair land, and the country was all ablaze with glory.  The ploughboy’s whistle was heard in every field in harmony with the lark.  The journey by mail coach was a pleasant one, for, being in no great haste, he traveled by easy stages, stopping over frequently to rest.  He saw on every hand evidence of awakening interest and prosperity.  New houses were building; new towns were laid out; new fields were inviting the ploughman; the busy hum of industry everywhere filled the heart of the patriot, and he more than once exclaimed: 

“What a great country is ours!”

He arrived at Baltimore at the close of a delightful day, and alighted in front of the principal tavern.  Some one, rushing across the street, pushed pedestrians right and left and howled in a voice loud enough to be heard three blocks away: 

“Tear and ages!  Clear the track!—­that’s himself—­divil a one else!”

This exclamation came from Terrence Malone, who, bareheaded and in shirt sleeves, was rushing through the throng of people on the street in reckless disregard of high hats and crinoline.  Women screamed and one hysterical creature tried to faint, but was restrained by the fear that her elegant costume might be soiled.

“Call the watchman!  Take that fellow and lock him up! knock him down!  Who is the wretch?”

These are only a part of the imprecations heaped on the devoted head of Terrence Malone, who, regardless of everything and everybody, burst his way through the crowd and reached Fernando’s side.

“O, murther!  O; holy mother!  O, Moses!  Is it yersilf safe afther all?”

The poor fellow could say no more, but burst into tears, for a more tender heart never beat in any breast.  Terrence had just arrived an hour before in Baltimore, having come from a long cruise in which he brought four prizes, for the privateers were slow to learn that the war was over.  He had put up at a rival house across the street and just removed his coat for a bath, when, looking out of the window, he recognized his old friend alighting from the stage coach.