Ever since our marriage it had been the cherished plan of my husband to take me on a wedding journey when we got to America,—a carriage journey, to see all the spots familiar to his childhood. By planning with this in view we were able to spend the anniversary of our wedding in Mechanicsburg, with Calvin’s cousins. One of these made a feast for us. Many were the reminiscences exchanged,—a happy binding of past and present. In a day or two we started on the long-promised journey, in a “one-horse-shay,” a journey of several days, our stops at noon, and again overnight, always being with friends of his childhood. But the friend to which most of all he wished to introduce me was his beloved old Long Mountain; and as I looked first at that, and then at his glowing face, I saw whence, next to his Bible and catechism, he had drawn his sturdy love of truth and freedom. Either on that journey, or on subsequent trips from Mechanicsburg or Harrisburg, we visited all the localities familiar to his childhood,—his birthplace, where the wall that used to seem so high to him now appeared so low to the white-bearded six-footer,—the brook where the clover mill used to stand,—the Silver Spring church, where he was baptized, and its adjoining graveyard, where lie many of his old Scotch-Irish ancestors, under quaint inscriptions.... It rained hard the day we visited the battle field of Gettysburg. This trip we took in company with an old friend of Calvin’s, a veteran of the war. Not less interesting were the surroundings of his second home, the “Hermitage.” Almost more noteworthy than the house was the big “bank-barn,”—the mows for hay, the bins for grain, the floor where he used to ride on horseback around and around over the grain in order to thresh it, the old workbench, and, above, the swallows’ nests. The rush of memory was so strong that the white-haired missionary could not keep back the tears. He showed me the little old schoolhouse, the stream near by, the old flour mill, within an inner room of which he and his boy companions used to meet on winter evenings around a “ten-plate” stove for debate. Another place of great interest was the old haunted churchyard, the fence of which he had mounted to fight his battle with the ghosts, and from which he got down a conqueror, never more to fear the face of man or devil. But the most sacred of all the spots which they visited was the grave of his mother, in the cemetery at Wooster, Ohio. From Seattle they sailed to Japan, and thence after a short season of fellowship with the venerable translator of the Old Testament, Bishop Schereschewsky, and with other friends, they came back to Tengchow. XV FACING THE NEW CHINA