anything he
wanted simply by coming to the capital and asking for it.

Ephraim was very much excited on finding himself in Washington, the sight
of the place reviving in his mind a score of forgotten incidents of the
war. After supper they found seats in a corner of the corridor, where a
number of people were scattered about, smoking and talking. It did not
occur to Jethro or Cynthia, or even to Ephraim, that these people were
all of the male sex, and on the other hand the guests of the hotel were
apparently used once in a while to see a lady from the country seated
there. At any rate, Cynthia was but a young girl, and her two companions,
however unusual their appearance, were clearly most respectable. Jethro,
his hands in his pockets and his hat tilted, sat on the small of his back
rapt in meditation; Cynthia, her head awhirl, looked around her with
sparkling eyes; while Ephraim was smoking a cigar he had saved for just
such a festal occasion. He did not see the stout man with the button and
corded hat until he was almost on top of him.

"Eph Prescott, I believe!" exclaimed the stout one. "How be you,
Comrade?"

Heedless of his rheumatism, Ephraim sprang to his feet and dropped the
cigar, which the stout one picked up with much difficulty.

"Well," said Ephraim, in a voice that shook with unwonted emotion, "you
kin skin me if it ain't Amasy Beard!" His eye travelled around Amasa's
figure. "Wouldn't a-knowed you, I swan, I wouldn't. Why, when I seen you
last, Amasy, your stomach was havin' all it could do to git hold of your
backbone."

Cynthia laughed outright, and even Jethro sat up and smiled.

"When was it?" said Amasa, still clinging on to Ephraim's hand and
incidentally to the cigar, which Ephraim had forgotten; "Beaver Creek,
wahn't it?"

"July 10, 1863," said Ephraim, instantly.

Gradually they reached a sitting position, the cigar was restored to its
rightful owner, and Mr. Beard was introduced, with some ceremony, to
Cynthia and Jethro. From Beaver Creek they began to fight the war over
again, backward and forward, much to Cynthia's edification, when her
attention was distracted by the entrance of a street band of wind
instruments. As the musicians made their way to another corner and began
tuning up, she glanced mischievously at Jethro, for she knew his
peculiarities by heart. One of these was a most violent detestation of
any but the best music. He had often given her this excuse, laughingly,
for