A couple of neat rooms were prepared and furnished, that were held sacred to the uses of the heir.  They were known to the whole household, black and white, as the “young captain’s quarters;” and even Maud called them, in her laughing off-handedness, “Bob’s Sanctum.”  Here, then, the major found everything as he left it on his last visit, a twelvemonth before; and some few things that were strangers to him, in the bargain.  In that day, toilets covered with muslin, more or less worked and ornamented, were a regular appliance of every bed-room, of a better-class house, throughout America.  The more modern “Duchesses,” “Psyches,” “dressing-tables,” &c. &c., of our own extravagant and benefit-of-the-act-taking generation, were then unknown; a moderately-sized glass, surrounded by curved, gilded ornaments, hanging against the wall, above the said muslin-covered table, quite as a matter of law, if not of domestic faith.

As soon as the major had set down his candle, he looked about him, as one recognises old friends, pleased at renewing his acquaintance with so many dear and cherished objects.  The very playthings of his childhood were there; and, even a beautiful and long-used hoop, was embellished with ribbons, by some hand unknown to himself.  “Can this be my mother?” thought the young man, approaching to examine the well-remembered hoop, which he had never found so honoured before; “can my kind, tender-hearted mother, who never will forget that I am no longer a child, can she have really done this?  I must laugh at her, to-morrow, about it, even while I kiss and bless her.”  Then he turned to the toilet, where stood a basket, filled with different articles, which, at once, he understood were offerings to himself.  Never had he visited the Hut without finding such a basket in his room at night.  It was a tender proof how truly and well he was remembered, in his absence.

“Ah!” thought the major, as he opened a bundle of knit lamb’s-wool stockings, “here is my dear mother again, with her thoughts about damp feet, and the exposure of service.  And a dozen shirts, too, with ‘Beulah’ pinned on one of them—­how the deuce does the dear girl suppose I am to carry away such a stock of linen, without even a horse to ease me of a bundle?  My kit would be like that of the commander-in-chief, were I to take away all that these dear relatives design for me.  What’s this?—­a purse! a handsome silken purse, too, with Beulah’s name on it.  Has Maud nothing, here?  Why has Maud forgotten me!  Ruffles, handkerchiefs, garters—­yes, here is a pair of my good mother’s own knitting, but nothing of Maud’s—­Ha! what have we here?  As I live, a beautiful silken scarf—­netted in a way to make a whole regiment envious.  Can this have been bought, or has it been the work of a twelvemonth?  No name on it, either.  Would my father have done this?  Perhaps it is one of his old scarfs—­if so, it is an old new one, for I do not think it has ever been worn.  I must inquire into this, in the morning—­I wonder there is nothing of Maud’s!”