they coming out, we going
in. There were jokes, and laughs, and cheerful words, but, the
hand-clasps were very tight, the sudden uprising of tender feelings, at
the sight of faces, and the sound of voices, we had not seen nor heard
for years, and that we might see and hear no more. The memories of home,
or school, and boyhood, suddenly brought back, by the faces linked with
them, made the tears come, and the words very kind, and the tones very
gentle.

I had several pleasant encounters. Among others, this: I heard a
familiar voice sing out, "William Dame, my dear boy, what on earth are
you doing here?" I eagerly turned, and in the figure hasting toward me
with outstretched hand,--as soon as I could read between the lines of
mud on him,--I recognized my dear old teacher, Jesse Jones. I loved him
like an older brother, and was delighted to meet him. I had parted from
him, that sad day, three years ago, when our school scattered to the
war. I had seen him last, the quiet gentleman, the thoughtful teacher,
the pale student, the pink of neatness. Here I find him a dashing
officer of the Third Virginia Cavalry, girt with saber and pistols,
covered with mud from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet,
and just resting from the bloody work of the last two days.

Just here, I had the great pleasure of falling in with my kinsman, and
almost brother, Lieut. Robert Page, of the Third Virginia Cavalry, the
older brother of my two comrades, and messmates, Carter and John Page.
"Bob" was one of the "true blues" who had followed Stuart's feather from
the start, and was going to follow it to the bitter end. I remember how,
at the very first, he rode off to the war, from his home, "Locust
Grove," in Cumberland County, Virginia, on his horse, "Goliath," with
his company, the Cumberland Troop. He had stuck to the front, been
always up, and ever at his post, all the way through those three long,
terrible years. He had deserved, and won his Lieutenancy, and commanded
his regiment the last days of the war. He made an enviable record as a
soldier for courage, faithfulness, and honor. None better! At
Appomattox he was surrendered. And having been forced to cease making
war on mankind with the saber, he mended his grip, and continued to make
war, with a far deadlier weapon of destruction, the spatula.

All this was very pleasant, but it was very short. Time was up; ten
minutes were out! We caught sight of General Stuart cantering acro