In contrast to these rose-hued expectations, doors were slammed in their faces, and they were treated little better than tramps.  “I suppose the people near Boston have been called on too often and imposed on, too,” Zeke reasoned rather ruefully.  “When we once get over the Connecticut border we’ll begin to find ourselves at home;” and spurred by hunger and cold, as well as hope, they pushed on desperately, subsisting on such coarse provisions as they could obtain, sleeping in barns when it stormed, and not infrequently by a fire in the woods.  At last they passed the Connecticut border, and led by Zeke they urged their way to a large farmhouse, at which, but a few months before, the table had groaned under rustic dainties, and feather-beds had luxuriously received the weary recruits bound to the front.  They approached the opulent farm in the dreary dark of the evening, and pursued by a biting east wind laden with snow.  Not only the weather, but the very dogs seemed to have a spite against them; and the family had to rush out to call them off.

“Weary soldiers ask for shelter,” began Zeke.

“Of course you’re bound for the lines,” said the matronly housewife.  “Come in.”

Zeke thought they would better enter at once before explaining; and truly the large kitchen, with a great fire blazing on the hearth, seemed like heaven.  The door leading into the family sitting-room was open, and there was another fire, with the red-cheeked girls and the white-haired grandsire before it, their eyes turned expectantly toward the new-comers.  Instead of hearty welcome, there was a questioning look on every face, even on that of the kitchen-maid.  Zeke’s four companions had a sort of hang-dog look—­for they had been cowed by the treatment received along the road; but he tried to bear himself confidently, and began with an insinuating smile, “Perhaps I should hardly expect you to remember me.  I passed this way last summer—–­”

“Passed this way last summer?” repeated the matron, her face growing stern.  “We who cannot fight are ready and glad to share all we have with those who fight for us.  Since you carry arms we might very justly think you are hastening forward to use them.”

“These are our own arms; we furnished them ourselves,” Zeke hastened to say.

“Oh, indeed,” replied the matron, coldly; “I supposed that not only the weapons, but the ones who carry them, belonged to the country.  I hope you are not deserting from the army.”

“I assure you we are not.  Our terms of enlistment have expired.”

“And your country’s need was over at the same moment?  Are you hastening home at this season to plow and sow and reap?”

“Well, madam, after being away so long we felt like having a little comfort and seeing the folks.  We stayed a long as we agreed.  When spring opens, or before, if need be—–­”