These things I learned by observation and not by experience, for before the train on which I was a passenger had cleared the suburbs of Atlanta, I caught a glimpse of Major Tumlin Perdue, who had long been a prominent citizen of Halcyondale. He had changed but little during the ten years. His hair was whiter, and he was a trifle thinner, but his complexion was still rosy and his manners as buoyant as ever. I doubted whether he would know me again, though he had been very friendly with me in the old days, seeming to know by instinct just when and how to drop a word of encouragement and appreciation, and so I forbore to renew the acquaintance. The Major could be boisterous enough in those times when in the humor, but when at his best he had more ways like those of a woman (and a noble and tender-hearted woman at that) than any man I had ever known. He had a woman’s tact, intuition, and sympathy; and these qualities were so exquisitely developed in him that they lifted him high in the estimation of a young man who was living away from his mother, and who was somewhat lonely on that account. Presently, the Major came along the aisle for a drink of water. As he was in the act of drinking, his eyes met mine, and he recognized me instantly. He swallowed the water with a gulp. “Why, bless my soul!” he exclaimed, greeting me with the simple cordiality that springs from an affectionate nature. “Why, I wouldn’t take ten dollars for this! I was thinking about you this very day. Don’t you remember the night we went out to ku-klux the Ku-klux, and the chap that mighty nigh broke his neck running into a wire clothes-line? I saw him to-day. He would hardly speak to me,” the Major went on, laughing heartily. “He’s never got over that night’s business. I thought about you, and I started to hunt you up; but you know how it is in Atlanta. Folks ain’t got time to eat, much less to tell you where anybody lives. A man that’s too busy is bound to worry, and worry will kill him every bit and grain as quick as John Barleycorn. Business is bound to be the ruin of this country, and if you don’t live to see it, your children will.” [Illustration: The Committee of Public Comfort.] Thus the Major talked, blending wisdom with impracticable ideas in the most delightful way. He seemed to be highly pleased when he found that I was to spend a week at Halcyondale, attending the fair and renewing old friendships. “Then you belong to me!” he exclaimed. “It’s no use,” he went on, shaking his head when I would have protested against imposing on his good-nature; “you needn’t say a word. The tavern is stuffed full of people, and even if it wasn’t, you’d go to my house. If you ain’t been ruined by living in Atlanta, it’ll seem like home to you. Dang it all! I’ll _make_ it seem like home to you anyhow.”