I was long about it; but at last a man pointed out a hut, and I went in. “Holloa, Jack!” I cried. “Hugh! Hugh! Where on earth are you from?” And he flushed as he used to do, and gave me a great bear-hug, saying, “And you are not dead! not dead! Thank God! thank God!” Thus again we met, to my unspeakable joy. He was about as lean as I had been, but on the whole, thanks to his florid skin, looked well or better than the best of that half-fed army. How we talked, how we poured out our news that cold March afternoon, I shall not take space to tell; nor his great wonder at seeing me after all had believed me dead. After supper came a half-dozen officers, and I heard all the camp gossip, and was made heartily welcome. Everything was on the mend, they said. Steuben was drilling the men; Greene was the new and efficient quartermaster-general. Supplies were pouring in. Mrs. Washington and Lady Stirling had come. The French were sure to make a treaty with us. As they talked of their privations I learned, for the first time, of the full horrors of the winter camp at the forge in the valley. There was still enough wretchedness to show how far worse must have been the pitiable condition of the army during that winter of ‘77-’78. I passed the next day at rest with Jack. I had had enough of the volunteer business, and determined, to Jack’s regret, to take service with the horse. I was still unfit to march, and it seemed to me wise for this reason to stick to Lucy’s good legs, at least until my own were in better order. I think Jack felt that he was under some necessity to take care of me, or from that affection he has ever shown desired to keep me near him. He only hoped I would not incline to join McLane’s troop, and when I asked why, declaring that to be my utmost desire, he said it was a service of needless peril. Upon this I laughed so that the hut shook, and poor Jack became quite disconcerted, and fell to making a variety of excuses. It is of this he says: “Hugh is come from death, and there is more to live for. For me, that am often unready and weak, here is again his ever just helpfulness. He is but a shadow of himself, and I cannot wonder that he is so bitter against the enemy, or that he desires, less on account of his bodily feebleness than from a wish to revenge his cruel treatment, to serve with the horse. They are never more quiet than gadflies. It is dangerous duty, and should it cost this dear life, how shall I ever face Mistress Wynne?”