eemed nearly as much out of order as facially. He carried a heavy cane
in his right hand, and the right foot was enclosed in a sort of moccasin
or spatterdash which might have belonged to one of the conductors on an
avenue railroad, for use in very severe weather. In shoe-makers'
measurement this foot-gear would probably have been rated about number
sixteen. Under the left arm, which was swathed below the elbow, he
carried a crutch, and though the foot on that side seemed to be
uninjured, the leg had not escaped so fortunately. It was stiffened and
drawn up so that the toe merely touched the ground and the principal
dependence was made upon the crutch. According to this arrangement, the
left leg limped and the right foot shuffled, and the style of locomotion
may be imagined.

But for the "pinch," which was a little characteristic, Emily Owen might
have had grave doubts, even after the warning of the day before, whether
this could be the sprightly young man whom she had known so well; and
the very mother who bore him, if she could have seen him in that
situation, would have been almost as excusable for not recognizing her
offspring, as that traditional matron who defeated all the theories
about "intuition" by not recognizing her son when "done up with pepper
and onions, in a stew."

This interesting person was finally ushered into the parlor and
introduced to the trio sitting there, as well as manoeuvered into a
chair. Aunt Martha, behind the curtain, was not prevented by her fright
at the possible consequences, from nearly smothering with concealed
laughter at the wonderful metamorphosis which had been accomplished.
Mrs. Owen, a weak woman with a soft heart, was dreadfully affected by
the "reality of war" thus brought home to her, and uttered many
ejaculations of pity, carefully under her breath for fear the "poor
fellow" should hear her and be pained.

Colonel Bancker--there is no use disguising the fact--was literally
horrified at the spectacle. A miserable old beau, with unlimited vanity
and a desire to appear everything that other people admired, but without
any other positive personal vices--he was, as Frank Wallace had always
believed, an incarnate, unmitigated poltroon--a coward of the first
water. He never had fought for anything, with hand or weapon--he never
intended to fight for anything--he never _could_ fight for anything. He
could not bear to think of being hurt himself, and he was pained beyond
measure