Slices of this savory ham, fried in a skillet--the truth of history forces the reluctant confession that the march of progress had not yet brought the grid-iron and its virtues to the mountains--a hot pone of golden-yellow meal, whose steaming sweetness had not been allowed to distill off, but had been forced back into the loaf by the hot oven-lid; coffee as black and strong as the virile infusions which cheer the hearts of the true believers in the tents of the Turk, and cream from cows that cropped the odorous and juicy grasses of mountain meadows, made a breakfast that could not have been more appetizing if composed by a French CHEF, and garnished by a polyglot bill-of-fare. Moved thereto by the hospitable urgings of Aunt Debby, and his own appetite, Harry ate heartily. Under the influence of the comfortable meal, the cheerful sunshine, and the rousing of the energies that follow a change from a recumbent to an erect posture, his spirits rose to a manlier pitch. As he could not walk without pain he took his seat in a slat-bottomed chair by the side of the hearth, and Aunt Debby, knitting in hand, occupied a low rocker nearly opposite. “Where's Mr. Fortner?” asked Harry. “Jim got up, arly, an' arter eatin' a snac said he'd go out an' take a look around--mebbe he mout go ez fur ez the Ford.” As if to accompany Harry's instinctie tremor over the possibilities attending the resumption of Fortner's prowling around the flanks of Zollicoffer's army, the fire shot off a whole volley of sharp little explosions. Harry sprang two or three inches above his chair, then reddened violently, and essayed to conceal his confusion by assiduous attention with the poker to the wants of the fire. Aunt Debby regarded him with gentle compassion. “Yer all shuck up by the happenin's yesterday,” she said with such tactful sympathy that his sensitive mettle was not offended. “'Tis nateral ye should be. Hit's allers so. Folks kin say what they please, but fouten's terrible tryin' to the narves, no matter who does hit. My husband wuz in the Mexican War, an' he's offen tole me thet fur weeks arter the battle o' Buner Visty he couldn't heah a twig snap withouten his heart poppin' right up inter his mouth, an' hit wuz so with everybody else, much ez they tried ter play off unconsarned like.” “Ah, really?” said Henry, deeply interested in all the concerned this woman, whose remarkable qualities were impressing themselves upon his recognition. “What part of the army did your husband belong to?” “He wuz in the Kentucky rigimint commanded by Kunnel Henry Clay, son o' the great Henry Clay, who wuz killed thar. My husband was promoted to a Leftenant fur his brav'ry in the battle.” “Then this is not your first experience with war?”