Cynthia liked the gentleman’s looks, and rightly surmised that he was one of the big men of the nation.  She was about to ask Jethro his name when Ephraim came limping along and put the matter out of her mind, and the three went into the almost empty dining room.  There they were served with elaborate attention by a darky waiter who had, in some mysterious way, learned Jethro’s name and title.  Cynthia reflected with pride that Jethro, too, was one of the nation’s great men, who could get anything he wanted simply by coming to the capital and asking for it.

Ephraim was very much excited on finding himself in Washington, the sight of the place reviving in his mind a score of forgotten incidents of the war.  After supper they found seats in a corner of the corridor, where a number of people were scattered about, smoking and talking.  It did not occur to Jethro or Cynthia, or even to Ephraim, that these people were all of the male sex, and on the other hand the guests of the hotel were apparently used once in a while to see a lady from the country seated there.  At any rate, Cynthia was but a young girl, and her two companions, however unusual their appearance, were clearly most respectable.  Jethro, his hands in his pockets and his hat tilted, sat on the small of his back rapt in meditation; Cynthia, her head awhirl, looked around her with sparkling eyes; while Ephraim was smoking a cigar he had saved for just such a festal occasion.  He did not see the stout man with the button and corded hat until he was almost on top of him.

“Eph Prescott, I believe!” exclaimed the stout one.  “How be you, Comrade?”

Heedless of his rheumatism, Ephraim sprang to his feet and dropped the cigar, which the stout one picked up with much difficulty.

“Well,” said Ephraim, in a voice that shook with unwonted emotion, “you kin skin me if it ain’t Amasy Beard!” His eye travelled around Amasa’s figure.  “Wouldn’t a-knowed you, I swan, I wouldn’t.  Why, when I seen you last, Amasy, your stomach was havin’ all it could do to git hold of your backbone.”

Cynthia laughed outright, and even Jethro sat up and smiled.

“When was it?” said Amasa, still clinging on to Ephraim’s hand and incidentally to the cigar, which Ephraim had forgotten; “Beaver Creek, wahn’t it?”

“July 10, 1863,” said Ephraim, instantly.

Gradually they reached a sitting position, the cigar was restored to its rightful owner, and Mr. Beard was introduced, with some ceremony, to Cynthia and Jethro.  From Beaver Creek they began to fight the war over again, backward and forward, much to Cynthia’s edification, when her attention was distracted by the entrance of a street band of wind instruments.  As the musicians made their way to another corner and began tuning up, she glanced mischievously at Jethro, for she knew his peculiarities by heart.  One of these was a most violent detestation of any but the best music.  He had often given her this excuse, laughingly, for not going to meeting in Coniston.  How he had come by his love for good music, Cynthia never knew—­he certainly had not heard much of it.