Again she attacked the piano. Some one started the song, darkey-fashion, by singing one bar, the others joining vociferously in the second; this was repeated, and then all gave the chorus, and so the song went on so long as any one could recall words. This was followed, at a venture, by "Maryland, my Maryland," for which the Union veterans had one set of words, and Ojam another, although the general effect was good. The ice was now broken, and the men suggested one song after another, for most of which Grace discovered that she knew the airs--for while the war created many new songs, it inspired little new music. The singing continued until the guests became hoarse, by which time Philip entered with iced lemonade made with tea, and Grace followed with sandwiches and biscuits and cake, which prompted some of the men to tell what they did not have to eat in the army. From this to war-stories was but a short step, and as every veteran, however stupid, has at least one war-story that is all his own, the host and hostess enjoyed a long entertainment of a kind entirely new to them. Meanwhile Grace was pressing refreshments on the men individually, but suddenly she departed. When she returned, in a few moments, she bore a tray covered with saucers of ice-cream, and the astonishment which the contents produced, as it reached the palates of the guests, made Grace almost apoplectic in her endeavors to keep from laughing. "What is it?" whispered a veteran who had not yet been served to one who was ecstatically licking his spoon. "Dog my cats if I know!" was the reply, as the man took another mouthful. "It tastes somethin' like puddin'--an' custard--an' cake--an' like the smell of ol' Mis' Madden's vanilla bean,--an'--" but just then the questioner was given an opportunity to taste for himself, after which he said:-- "It beats the smell o' my darter's hair-ile--beats it all holler." "I reckon," said Caleb, who had inspected the freezer on its arrival, and had been wildly curious as to its product, "I reckon it's ice-cream." "What? That stuff that there's jokes about in the newspapers sometimes,--jokes about gals that's too thin-waisted to hug, but can eat barl's of it?" "Yes; that's the stuff." "The dickens! Well, ef I was a gal, I'd let out tucks all day long an' durn the expense, if my feller'd fill my bread-basket with stuff like that. Must be frightful costly, though." "Not more'n plain custard, Mis' Somerton says." "Wh-a-a-a-a-at? Say, Caleb, I'm goin' to j'in the church, right straight off. No more takin' any risks o' hell for me, thank you, for it stands to reason that they can't make ice-cream down there."