When I got off the train, it moved on, and I found myself standing beside the track, alone—a “stranger in a strange land,” at night-time. What was I to do? The village appeared to be wrapped in sleep, and not a light was to be seen. Presently, however, I looked toward Toledo, and saw a man—obviously an employé of the road—approaching me, carrying a red lantern in his hand. “Good evening,” said I. “How do you do?” he returned, sleepily. “Did you just come up?” “Yes—just got off the train.” “How did you—O, I thought it was Simon McCann,” he said, as he drew nearer. “No, I am not Simon,” I replied. “On the contrary, my name is Smith—first name John. Do you know any one of that name here?” What a question to ask anywhere in the world! “O, yes; half-a-dozen families. There’s old John, and——” “Do you know William Smith?” “Yes—quite an old man, is he not?” “Probably he is. I never saw him. He moved here twenty-five years ago.” “From Pennsylvania?” “Yes.” “Are you from Pennsylvania?” “Yes; can you——” “I see you’ve lost a”—I began to tremble now—“leg.” “Yes, can——” “In the army?” I shuddered at the thought of having to stand there and answer four or five hundred questions, at that time of night; and I determined, as I perceived he was getting into a regular train of army questions, to make a desperate attempt at insulation. “Yes, can——” “What battle?” “Antietam where does——” “What reg——” I had already begun to ignore commas, and I now saw the necessity of throwing out the spaces between my words; and I hurriedly replied: “Eighthpennsylvaniareserveswheredidyousaywilliamsmithlives?” The spell was broken, and he responded, like a white man: “About two miles from here.” “Is there no hotel here?” “None.” “No house of entertainment?” “No.” “Is there any chance then to get a conveyance?” “None that I know of.” “Then I must walk it. Will you direct me to his house?” “Yes; you go——” He gave me the directions, and they appeared so plain that I fancied I could find my uncle’s house with my eyes shut. The moon was just up, the night was beautiful and pleasant, and the roads surpassingly muddy; and I had a walk that night that, I think, will never “slip my memory.” The land in this portion of Ohio is low and flat, the soil black, loose and soft—very fertile, too, so far as that is concerned; but a man isn’t particular about rich ground to walk on with a crutch—and the soundings were from three to thirty inches. At the first cross-road, I went astray—took the wrong road, traveled half-a-mile on it, and, beginning to grow apprehensive, stopped by a gate, yelled, waked somebody’s neighbor, and asked if that was the road to William Smith’s? “Did you come from the station?” was the response of the neighbor, who was in his night-dress. “Yes.” “Then you are on the wrong road. You should have kept on toward the south at the cross-roads. It is at the next cross-road after that. Then you turn to the——” I thought he said——“right.”