goin' to settle right down now to the hardest work I ever did in my life."
"That's the way to talk, my boy," said Tom putting his hand on Hose's shoulder. "You'll have enough to do these hard times to make a livin'."
They made a handsome picture, in that humble home, as they stood there before the Preacher. The young bride was trembling from head to foot with fright. Hose was trying to look grave and dignified and grinning in spite of himself whenever he looked into the face of his blushing mate. The mother was standing near, her face full of pride in her daughter's beauty and happiness, her heart all a quiver with the memories of her own wedding day seventeen years before. Tom was thinking of the morrow when he would be turned out of his home and his eyes filled with tears.
The Rev. John Durham had pronounced them man and wife and hurried away to see some people who were sick. The old fiddler was doing his best. Hose and his bride were shaking hands with their friends, and the boys were trying to tease the bridegroom with hoary old jokes.
Suddenly a black shadow fell across the doorway. The fiddle ceased, and every eye was turned to the door. The burly figure of a big negro trooper from a company stationed in the town stood before them. His face was in a broad grin, and his eyes bloodshot with whiskey. He brought his musket down on the floor with a bang.
"My frien's, I'se sorry ter disturb yer but I has orders ter search dis house."
"Show your orders," said Tom hobbling before him.
"Well, deres one un 'em!" he said still grinning as he cocked his gun and presented it toward Tom. "En ef dat aint ennuf dey's fifteen mo' stanin' 'roun' dis house. It's no use ter make er fuss. Come on, boys!"
