Remounting our steeds, we slowly proceed down the steep declivity on the opposite side of the mountain, and hurry on. We had gone but a short distance when we came to a large three-story brick house, where, Mr. S. told me, the rebel sharpshooters were once concealed to pick off our men as they pursued the flying foe from Culpepper. A battery was opened upon the building, and soon “Johnny reb” was glad to evacuate his stronghold and beat a hasty retreat. The family, in their frenzy, rushed into the cellar for safety; but there is little safety in the face of an open battery. A large ball, striking the wall near the ground, knocked in the bricks, hurling them in confusion across the cellar, killing an old man and a little child. The whole building--roof, wall, and windows--showed the folly of hoping for safety within. The next morning I was invited by Dr. Beach to take a ride along our picket-line. As my pass had not yet expired, and being naturally a little fond of adventure, the temptation was too great, and, in spite of the dark, lowering clouds, the slow, drizzling rain, and the prospect of a stormy day, we mounted our steeds and galloped away. Our infantry pickets are soon passed, and, as we approach the Rapidan, we descend the bank, and ride for some distance along the flat, only a few rods from the river. At our right, across the river, are the rebel pickets; at our left, our own. These are the outposts of the two armies, each mounted, and vigilantly watching the movements of the other. About noon we called at a small wood-colored house to rest. In this small building the women and children representing three different families were living. One of the ladies was a widow. The husbands of the other two were in the rebel army. They received us cordially--they dare not do otherwise even had they felt disposed to, being at the mercy of our army, and subsisting wholly upon it. Dinner being ready we gladly accepted an invitation to share their frugal meal, which consisted of pork and beans, corn-bread, and rice. After dinner we rode over to Germania Ford and called on another secession family. Here we found a woman and two or three little children living alone. The lady’s husband had been in the rebel army, but was then a prisoner, confined in the old Capitol, at Washington. She claimed to be a relative of the rebel General Ashly. She was none of the “poor white trash” of the South, and, though then very destitute, she had seen better days. The children, ashamed of their rags, ran and hid themselves behind the house, and could not be induced to come in, though the mother urged the little girl to come and play for us on the piano. The lady played and sang several beautiful songs. She was greatly pleased that we had called. She urged me to stay until the next day, and tried to exact a promise that I would be sure and come again. “Oh!” she said, “I am so lonely! I have not seen a lady before in