A cottage of squared logs, filled in with plaster, and whitewashed.  A little yard before it, with a gate swinging.  The door of the cottage ajar,—­no one visible as yet.  I push open the door and enter.  An old woman, Margaret Kitzmuller her name proves to be, is the first person I see.

“Captain H. here?”

“Oh no, sir,—­left yesterday morning for Hagerstown,—­in a milk-cart.”

The Kitzmuller is a beady-eyed, cheery-looking ancient woman, answers questions with a rising inflection, and gives a good account of the Captain, who got into the vehicle without assistance, and was in excellent spirits.  Of course he had struck for Hagerstown as the terminus of the Cumberland Valley Railroad, and was on his way to Philadelphia, via Chambersburg and Harrisburg, if he were not already in the hospitable home of Walnut Street, where his friends were expecting him.

I might follow on his track or return upon my own; the distance was the same to Philadelphia through Harrisburg as through Baltimore.  But it was very difficult, Mr. Fay told me, to procure any kind of conveyance to Hagerstown; and, on the other hand, I had James Grayden and his wagon to carry me back to Frederick.  It was not likely that I should overtake the object of my pursuit with nearly thirty-six hours start, even if I could procure a conveyance that day.  In the mean time James was getting impatient to be on his return, according to the direction of his employers.  So I decided to go back with him.

But there was the great battle-field only about three miles from Keedysville, and it was impossible to go without seeing that.  James Grayden’s directions were peremptory, but it was a case for the higher law.  I must make a good offer for an extra couple of hours, such as would satisfy the owners of the wagon, and enforce it by a personal motive.  I did this handsomely, and succeeded without difficulty.  To add brilliancy to my enterprise, I invited the Chaplain and the Philanthropist to take a free passage with me.

We followed the road through the village for a space, then turned off to the right, and wandered somewhat vaguely, for want of precise directions, over the hills.  Inquiring as we went, we forded a wide creek in which soldiers were washing their clothes, the name of which we did not then know, but which must have been the Antietam.  At one point we met a party, women among them, bringing off various trophies they had picked up on the battlefield.  Still wandering along, we were at last pointed to a hill in the distance, a part of the summit of which was covered with Indian corn.  There, we were told, some of the fiercest fighting of the day had been done.  The fences were taken down so as to make a passage across the fields, and the tracks worn within the last few days looked like old roads.  We passed a fresh grave under a tree near the road.  A board was nailed to the tree, bearing the name, as well as I could make it out, of Gardiner, of a New Hampshire regiment.