“What’s the matter?” we asked in keen disappointment. Just then the wagon made a turn, and we saw distinctly into the house through an uncurtained window. There was a long white object in the middle of the floor and over it stood a weeping woman. “Why,” I exclaimed, “somebody’s dead there.” “Yes, I didn’t want to tell you,” he said. “It’s a dead soldier. I was afraid it might make you feel badly. Ladies are sometimes superstitious, and I feared you might take it as a bad omen for our journey.” But we found out afterward that it was he who had taken it for a bad omen. He was going north to see his family, and he was so anxious about them that he talked of little else. Captain Locke’s mission was not so clear. He called it business--we little knew what dangerous business it was!--and we troubled our heads no further about it. It was very late when we at last came upon a tumble-down farmhouse, where we were taken in for the night. The family who lived there did their best for us, but they were far from being comfortable themselves. By this time, however, any quarters and any fare were acceptable. We slept in the room with a goodly company, all fortunately of our own sex, and the gentlemen, as we heard afterward, in even more crowded quarters. Our poverty-stricken hosts did not wish to charge us, but before we left the next morning we insisted upon paying them. That morning a little Jew boy was added to our party. Just how, or when, or where we picked him up, I can not recall, and I should probably never have thought of him again if he had not impressed himself upon me most unpleasantly afterward at Berlin. Our second night we spent according to our program, in Fauquier County, with Mr. Robert Bolling, a friend of my husband’s. “I am astonished at your trying to run the blockade, Mrs. Grey,” he said. “Why?” I asked. “And why are you more astonished at me than at Milicent?” I had been hearing similar remarks, and was becoming curious. “Because you look like a little girl. I am surprised at such nerve in so youthful a lady.” “I want a new uniform for Dan,” I said. “He’s promoted.” Mr. Bolling laughed heartily. “And I am quite as brave as Milicent,” I insisted. “Well, I am surprised at you both. It is a dangerous undertaking.” Our wagoner was invited to take supper with us. He was rough and ill-clad, and he felt out of place, but Mr. Bolling charmed him into ease and talked over our prospective journey with him. “It is well for you to be on good terms with your wagoner,” he said to us privately, when he sent out the invitation. Mr. Bolling was old and gray-haired, or he would have been in the field. His home was one of the most celebrated country-seats in Fauquier, and he himself full of honors and one of the best-known men in the State.