On entering the small settlement of Keedysville, a familiar face and figure blocked the way, like one of Bunyan’s giants.  The tall form and benevolent countenance, set off by long, flowing hair, belonged to the excellent Mayor Frank B. Fay of Chelsea, who, like my Philanthropist, only still more promptly, had come to succor the wounded of the great battle.  It was wonderful to see how his single personality pervaded this torpid little village; he seemed to be the centre of all its activities.  All my questions he answered clearly and decisively, as one who knew everything that was going on in the place.  But the one question I had come five hundred miles to ask,—­Where is Captain H.?—­he could not answer.  There were some thousands of wounded in the place, he told me, scattered about everywhere.  It would be a long job to hunt up my Captain; the only way would be to go to every house and ask for him.  Just then a medical officer came up.

“Do you know anything of Captain H. of the Massachusetts Twentieth?”

“Oh yes; he is staying in that house.  I saw him there, doing very well.”

A chorus of hallelujahs arose in my soul, but I kept them to myself.  Now, then, for our twice-wounded volunteer, our young centurion whose double-barred shoulder-straps we have never yet looked upon.  Let us observe the proprieties, however; no swelling upward of the mother,—­no hysterica passio, we do not like scenes.  A calm salutation,—­then swallow and hold hard.  That is about the programme.

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.