It was just at sunset of a fine September day in the
year of grace 181-, nearly five years after the events we
have narrated, that a traveler coming from the east, that
is to say from the direction of Martinsburg, stopped upon
the “Third Hill Mountain” some miles to the west of
that town, to rest his horse for a moment before descending
into the little valley beneath. “Sleepy Creek Mountain”
stretched just in front of him across the narrow
glen, and the round red orb, about to disappear, had
kindled the tall pines upon its summit into a blaze, and
like a bonfire threw the long shadows of tree and rock and
knoll, down the declivity into “Meadow Branch Valley.”

The traveler was much struck by the fair picture, so
quiet and so lovely; but after gazing upon it for a few
moments, he touched his magnificent sorrel with the spur
and went on again, down the mountain, breasting the
full red rays which lit up radiantly his rich dress, and
brown closely trimmed hair and beard, and his fine smiling
face. His object was apparently to reach some friendly
shelter before the cool September breeze made the open air
uncomfortable. Besides he seemed to have ridden far and
naturally looked about him now for a night's resting-place.

He had nearly reached the base of the mountain, and,

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seeing no habitation near, had begun to look with forlorn
interest on a large Dutch barn and dwelling-house far to
the south, when coming out from a clump of pines which,
just in his front obscured the view, he found himself
close to a mountain-dwelling.

“Ah,” murmured the stranger, “where were my
thoughts wandering? Might I not have expected to find
precisely at this spot what I now see!”

And with a well-satisfied smile he approached the
house, at the door of which was seated a tall powerful
mountaineer.

The mountaineer was apparently above sixty, with hair
nearly white with age; not wholly, for many dark threads
still remained relieving the silver sheen of the rest. He
was very plainly the owner and lord of the mansion, and
at the moment when the stranger drew near, was caressing
with his vigorous hand a tall deer-hound, who submitted
with evident pleasure to this agreeable ceremony.

The traveler courteously saluted him, dismounting as
he spoke; then in a voice, open and frank, but slightly
French in accent, he said—

“May I crave a night's lodging, sir? I see no houses
of entertainment any where, and find myself somewhat at
a loss for a night's rest.”

“You are very welcome, sir,” said the mountaineer,
rising, “make my house your own; such as it is.”

“I thank you, sir,” replied the stranger, “but will not
my horse embarrass you?”

“We'll see to him—we'll see to him. A fine animal
he is too. He shall stand by my own, and feed as well.”

“Thanks, sir—many thanks for your hospitality,” the
traveler said with a smile.

“There's no thanks owing to me, sir. I'm a poor
man, but would think myself not doing my duty to turn
away a guest. Wife,” added the mountaineer, turning
toward the house from which came the busy hum of

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a spinning-wheel, “here is a friend who will stop with
us. My wife, sir—Mrs. Myers. My own name is John
Myers—at your service.”

The old dame came to the door and courtesied, smiling
cheerfully: then betook herself to preparing the supper.

“My own name,” the traveler said, “is Doctor Thomas;
and while supper is getting ready, my good sir, I will
with your leave see to my horse. We are old friends; I
must not slight him.”

“I like you the better for that, guest,” the mountaineer
replied in his hearty voice, “and I'll go with you, and let
you see that all's right.”

Thereupon the mountaineer led the way to a rude, but
well constructed shed, some few paces behind the house;
and opened the door. It was already occupied by a large
black horse, who might have borne Goliah upon his broad
back; but at his side was a vacant stall, and here the
traveler saw his steed, comfortably housed, with a plentiful
feed. They then returned toward the house. This
was a building of some size, of logs hewn smooth with
the ax, the spaces between carefully plastered to exclude
rain and wind. The roof was of clapboards, held down
by long poles fixed across them, and the chimneys—one
at each end—were of large brown stone. In front was an
antique “hominy sweep,” with its heavy pestle, and at a
little distance, a scaffolding, where, to judge by the pile
of wood-dust, the “whip-saw” of former days, was still
made to do duty.

There was about this house, little that did not remind
you of that picturesque past, of our Virginia border, which
has scarcely left any trace of its habitudes and peculiarities
in our own day. Every thing spoke of former days—the
hominy sweep, the whip-saw, the clap-boards of the roof;—
and all this the traveler seemed to gaze on, with a loving
eye, for its very antique rudeness.

They entered.

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