Down the Dover road we go a mile or two, then turn up another bridle-path, which crosses and recrosses a little rill some thirty times. Two men ride before us, partly to accustom themselves to the duties of advance guard, partly to point out the intricate road. As we come round a turn, there are a farmer and his daughter (a young girl) on horseback before us. They have met the advance guard, and have stopped, and are looking back at them with fearful interest, completely absorbed in the sight. They do not even hear our approach, and I get near enough to hear the girl asking her father about these two Federal soldiers. The squadron is marching "by twos," and there is not room enough to pass. Ordinarily, private persons would have to get out of the way; but I think this a beautiful opportunity to be very polite, so I command "by file." Man and girl turn their heads as though a gun had gone off close to their ears. Such a look of fear and surprise I have never seen as in the poor girl's face. They are so hemmed in that they have to stand still until the whole column passes one by one, and the last we see of them they continue to stand there, looking back at us. It must seem like a vision, and they will have a tremendous tale to tell when they reach home. This road is so secluded that none of our soldiers have found it, and we cause a great stir in the few houses we pass. My men march silently, more like regulars than volunteers, and the inhabitants confess that they find in us an unexpected contrast to the noisy, yelling rascals, who a few weeks before were plundering them, for the good of the Southern Confederacy.