“No, sir:  that was my father at the station”—­he of the jug.

“How do you like this country?”

My habit from childhood had been to take the life of any stranger who had the audacity to tell me that he did not like any and every part of Virginia, but of late I have contented myself with slicing off his ears.

“The longer I live here the better I like it.”

Smart boy! he had saved his auditory organs.  But as yet his accent had not been sufficiently defined to enable me to tell his nationality.  “You are not from England, are you?”

“No, indeed, sir—­from New Hampshire.”

The appalling truth was out.  First, a Yankee uniform; second, an Englishman; third, a whole raft, a “hull lot,” of New Hampshire Yankees; and yet they call this Virginia!

No wonder I was silent.  Night had fallen, we had entered a dark forest, there was an unreconstructed penknife (somehow or other, I always forget my bowie-knife and Derringers now-a-days) recently sharpened in my pocket.  Why did I not cut the throat of this little Oppressor and fatten the soil of my native land with the blood of the small ruthless Yankee Invader?

It was just because at this moment we caught up with the ambulance.  The two vehicles halted, a young girl and a little boy left the ambulance and took seats by the side of my driver, and the greeting of the brother and sister—­the latter having just returned from a visit to her native granite hills—­was actually as affectionate, beautiful and sweet as if they had been born in the middle of the Mother of States and of Statesmen.  And as the ambulance drove on there came floating back to us ever and anon on the night wind a still sweeter voice.  It came from a young lady—­a young Yankee lady at that—­and it sounded sweet to me—­to me myself, my own dear, unadulterated, real Old Virginia self.

Turning from the main road, we wound around among the rocky ravines in a fashion truly bewildering to a body with weak eyes, but my little Yankee driver seemed so much at home that I felt no shadow of fear.  Arriving safely at the general’s capacious mansion, I bade my Northern friends good-night, and sat down to a supper without fried chickens or coffee.  In lieu of the latter we had cold tea, with a slice of lemon in each goblet.  After a long talk on matters of no concern to the reader, during which the general related a number of capital war-anecdotes, I contrived, as is my wont, to turn the conversation upon agricultural topics, with the view of imparting to him a modicum of that consummate farming wisdom which appertains to every thoroughly conceited scribbler.

“Fine country you have, general.”

“Yes:  from Lugston to the Tennessee line, two hundred good miles, the country is as fine as the sun ever shone upon.”

“Appears to be thinly settled.”

“You may well say so.  Between my house and the station there are eight or nine thousand acres, most of it excellent land, belonging to only five or six owners.”