No sooner were our little New Yorkers settled in their pretty summer home than they naturally desired that it should have a name, and after much discussion, according to the Bennett custom, they all agreed that “Little Homespun,” one of the names that Courage had suggested, seemed to fit the cosy, unpretentious little home better than anything else that had been thought of. No sooner were they settled either before they became friends firm and fast of the household up at Ellismere. It needed but very little time to bring that about, because everything was—to use a big word because no smaller one will do—propitious. You can imagine what it meant to Courage—taking up her home in a new land, and with cares wholly new to her—to have a dear old lady like Grandma Ellis call upon her, as she did the very first morning after her arrival. Of course Courage had to explain how it was she had come way down there to Virginia with the little Bennett children in charge. Indeed, almost before she knew it, and in answer to Grandma Ellis’s gentle inquiries, she had told her all there was to tell—about Miss Julia, about herself and Mary Duff and Sylvia, and finally, as always with any new friend, the why and wherefore of her own unusual name. The tears stood in Grandma Ellis’s eyes many times during the narration, and her face was aglow with love and sympathy and admiration as Courage brought her story to a close.

“And now, my dear,” she had said, “I want you should know what little there is to tell about us. We live just three miles from here, and in the same old Virginia homestead where my husband was born. We, means my son Harry, and Brevet and myself. Brevet, as you already know, perhaps, has neither father nor mother. His mother died when he was six months old, and his father, my oldest son, was drowned when the Utopia went down, off the coast of Spain five years ago. We are doing our best, Harry and I, to make up to Brevet for his great loss; but it is sad that the little fellow should only know the love of an old grandmama like me, and never of his own young mother. But I do not want to burden you with my sorrows, dear child; I only want you to know we must all be the best of friends the whole summer through. It seems to me we just need each other, and in order to commence right, you must all come and spend the day with us to-morrow.”

And on the morrow they all did go up to Ellismere, Mary Duff and Sylvia with the others; the children went again the day after that, and then all hands from Ellismere came down to Homespun for the day, and so what with constant coming and going from one house to the other, in just two weeks’ time it was as though they had known each other always. And then it was that Joe arranged with Courage for the day to be spent at Arlington.

“The Ellis’s will all come,” Joe explained, “Mammy wid de res’ of ‘em, I suppose,” (but very much as though he preferred she should not) “and I done wish de Colonel could be persuaded to drive out from Washington, case ‘tween us we knows mos’ dere is of interest happened at Arlington. He use’ to visit at de big house when General Lee lived in it ’fo’ de wah, an’ I was a slave on de place.”

“You don’t mean Colonel Anderson, do you, Joe?”

“De berry same, Miss.”

“Well, then, of course he’ll come. He is an old, old friend of Miss Julia’s. I met him on the train when we came down and he asked me to invite him out some time,” and so Courage wrote a note of invitation that very day which Joe, with his own hands, carried into Washington. It was written on pretty blue paper, which had “Homespun” engraved at the top of the sheet and Tiffany’s mark on the envelope as well. It must be confessed that Courage had a little extravagant streak in her; that is, she loved to have everything just about as nearly right as she could. Sister Julia had encouraged the little streak, knowing the peculiar pleasure that the reasonable indulgence of a refined taste brings into life, “but, dear,” she had often said to Courage, “there is one thing to look out for, and that is that the more you gratify your own taste the more you must give to the people who have no taste at all, or very little of anything that makes life enjoyable,” all of which good advice Courage had taken to heart and remembered. But extravagant streak or no, the stylish little blue note accomplished its purpose, for at precisely nine o’clock the next morning Colonel Anderson wheeled up at Joe’s cabin, in his high, old-fashioned carriage, and at almost the same moment arrived the Homespun buckboard with its load of eight (for Sylvia and Mary Duff were to be in as many good times as possible) and a moment later Grandma Ellis, Harry, Brevet and old Mammy drove upon the scene.

“Now, how would we best manage things, Joe?” asked Colonel Anderson, after everybody had had a. little chat with everybody else, and luncheon baskets and wraps had been safely stowed away in Joe’s cabin.

“Well, seems ter me we’d better take a look over de house first, den take a stroll through de groun’s an’ come back to de shade of dat ol’ ches’nut yonder for de story. You can’t make a story bery interestin’ when you hab a walkin’ aujence, an’ de aujence what’s walkin’ can’t catch on ter de story bery well either.”

It was easy to see that this suggestion was a wise one, so with the exception of Grandma Ellis and Mammy, for whom comfortable rocking-chairs were at once placed under the chestnut tree, the little party made its way into the old colonial house.

“Arlington House is rather a cheerless looking place now, I admit,” sighed Colonel Anderson, as they walked through the large empty rooms, “but wait till we have the story and we’ll fill it full enough.”

“Yes, but don’t let us wait any longer than we have to,” answered Courage, and as this was the sentiment of the entire party, they hurried from the house for the walk that was to follow. The four little Bennetts kept close to each other all the way, Mary, the eldest, leading little Gertrude by the hand. They were very quiet, too, wondering and overawed by the unbroken lines of graves on every side.

“I wonder if Teddy and I will have to go to a war when we grow up,” said Allan at last, half under his breath, with a perceptible little shiver and as though barely mustering courage to speak.

“We’ll go if there is a war, I can tell you that,” Teddy replied, rather scornfully.

“Then we’ll be buried here, I suppose,” and Allan shook his head hopelessly, as though standing that moment at the foot of their two soldier-graves.

“And so will I,” affirmed Brevet, who had kept his place close beside his favourite Allan from the start. “I’ll speak to be buried right by both of you, too, just as though I was one of your family,” and Brevet stood as he spoke with his arms folded and his brows knit, in solemn and soldier-like fashion.

Now and then the little party would group itself around Colonel Anderson as he read the inscription from some monument or headstone, telling of the valour of the man whose grave it marked and often of the brave deed dared that cost the hero his life. And so some idea was gained of the beauty and significance of the great soldier cemetery, and then all hurried back to Grandma Ellis, and Colonel Anderson began his story.

An odd assortment of rush-bottomed chairs had been brought from Joe’s cabin for the grown-ups, and the children were scattered about on shawls and carriage rugs on the ground.

“Now, it isn’t easy,” said Colonel Anderson thoughtfully, “to know just where to commence.”

“Den I’ll tell you,” said Joe, who was seated at the Colonel’s elbow. “Dere ain’t no such proper place ter begin as at de beginnin’. Tell ‘em as how der was a time when Arlington was a great unbroken forest, an’ how way back early in de eighteen hundreds, George Washington Parke Custis came by de lan’ through his father and built Arlington House.”

“If you are going as far back as that, Joe, you ought to go farther, and tell how there was an old house here even before this one, which was built way back early in the seventeen hundreds. It was a little house, with only four rooms, and it stood down yonder near the bank of the river, and was bought with the land by John Custis from the Alexanders. John Custis, you know, children, was Martha Washington’s son, for she was a widow with two children when she married General Washington; and George Washington Parke Custis, who lived for awhile in the little house before he built this beautiful big one, was her grandson. He was a fortunate young fellow, as the world counts being fortunate, for he had more money than he knew what to do with. As soon as this fine house was completed, George Custis was married and brought his bride to his new home, where for the next fifty years they lived the most happy and contented life imaginable. They had one daughter, a very beautiful young lady, as I myself clearly remember, for my birthday and her wedding-day fell together, and that was why I was allowed to attend the wedding. My mother and Miss Mollie’s mother were the warmest friends, but I was only a boy of ten, and would have been left at home, I think, but for the coincidence of the birthday. I remember my mother told me Miss Custis said she would like me always to think of her wedding-day, when my birthday came round, and I can tell you, children, I always do, even though I am an old man and have started in the seventies.” "An’ so do I,” chimed in Joe; “I neber done think of one without de oder, so closely are dey ’sociated in my min’.”

“Why, were you there too, Joe?” asked Brevet, with a merry little twinkle in his eyes, for if there was one story more often told than any other for Brevet’s edification, it was the story of Miss Mary Custis’s wedding.

“Sho’ as yo’ born, Honey,” quite overlooking Brevet’s insinuation in his absorbing interest in the subject. “It was a bery busy day for me, de day Miss Mollie was married.”

“How ole was you, Joe, ‘bout dat time?” asked Mammy, her old eyes a-twinkle with mischief as well as Brevet’s, for Joe’s age, as every one knew, was a mere matter of guesswork, so careful was he that no one should ever come to a knowledge of the same.

“Seems ter me dat question ain’t no wise relavent,” replied Joe, bristling up a little, “but de Colonel and I warn’t so bery far apart when we was chilluns.”

“Why, were you friends then?” asked Allan Bennett.

“Well, that day made us friends,” answered Colonel Anderson, “and this was the way it happened. Everything was ready for the wedding. As many of the guests as it would hold were assembled in the drawing-room, the room on the left of the front door there as you go in, but the clergyman had not arrived. Then it was that Mr. Custis, beginning to grow nervous, called to Joe there, who stood on the porch, as fine as silk in his best clothes and white cotton gloves, ready to open the carriage doors for the guests as they arrived.

“‘Joe,’ called Mr. Custis, ‘run down the road, and see if you see a sign of a carriage anywhere in sight,’ and, children, what do you suppose Joe did? Well, he just stood stock still, looking down at his bright polished boots, and he never budged an inch.”

“It’s de truf,” said Joe, shaking his head regretfully, for the children were looking to him for confirmation of the story.

“You see the boots were very shiny,” continued the Colonel, in a tone of apology for Joe, “and the roads were very very muddy, so that he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Fortunately for Joe, I imagine, Mr. Custis had not waited to see him start, taking for granted, of course, that he would obey at once, and then what did I do but spring down the steps and run on Joe’s errand for him, only too thankful if I could do anything to prove my gratitude for being allowed to be present at that, to me, greatest of occasions. I had to wait less than five minutes before I discovered the open chaise, which had been sent into Washington to bring the dominie, tearing up the road.

“‘They’re coming, they’ll be here in a minute,’ I called, hurrying back to Joe, and then he rushed away in his new shiny boots and delivered my message to Mr. Custis, pretending, as the rogue confessed to me afterward, to be quite out of breath from the haste with which he had come. And then in the next moment Mr. Meade, for that was the clergyman’s name, was really there, but he came in at the back door and slipped upstairs as quickly as he could, followed by Joe and myself. You see he had driven right into the heart of a heavy thunder shower, just outside of Washington, and was drenched to the skin. There was nothing for it but that he must make a change of clothing as quickly as he could, so Joe, who knew where Mr. Custis kept his clothes, ran hither and thither, bringing one article after another, and I helped the minister into them—but my, how he did look! Mr. Custis was short and stout, and Mr. Meade was tall and thin, and I didn’t see how any one could keep their faces straight with such a guy of a minister. They couldn’t have done it either, if they had seen how he looked, could they, Joe?”

“No, Colonel, not for a minute,” chuckled Joe. "But why didn’t they see?” questioned eager little Allan.

“Why, because, of course, he had brought his gown with him, and it covered him all up,” for Brevet, able to anticipate much of the familiar story, was glad to have a hand in its telling.

“I wish you could know how the house looked in those days,” said the Colonel with a sigh of regret, echoed by a much louder and deeper sigh on the part of Joe. “It was full of the most beautiful things. There was a magnificent array of old family portraits; among them two or three of George and Martha Washington. Then there was a marvelous old sideboard that held many beautiful things that had belonged to Washington. I remember in particular some great silver candlesticks with snuffers and extinguishers, and silver wine-coolers, and some exquisite painted china, part of a set that had been given to Washington by the Society of the Cincinnati.”

“I do not think you have told the children,” interrupted Grandma Ellis, “who it was that Miss Custis married.”

“Can that be possible?” provoked that he should have left out anything so important. “Why, it was General Robert E. Lee!” "I’m afraid we don’t know who General Lee was,” said Mary Bennett, blushing a little, and then she added quickly, “you see we live so far away from where the war was fought,” for Brevet’s undisguised look of astonishment was really quite paralysing.

“We only know what we have learnt at school,” Teddy further explained, “and we don’t remember so very much of that.”

“Why, General Lee,” said Brevet earnestly, feeling that he must come personally to the rescue of such dense ignorance, “was the greatest general they had down South. He would have whipped us Yankees if any one could.”

“He was a fine man though, a fine man,” said Joe, solemnly. “He and Miss Mary lived right on here at Arlington after dey was married and dere wasn’t a slave of us on de place who wouldn’t hab let Lieutenant Lee walk right ober us if he’d wanted to. So den when Mr. Custis died in 1857, and Lieutenant Lee done come to be de haid of de house, it was changin’ one good master for anoder.”

“Was Joe a slave?” asked Allan, drawing himself up to Mammy’s knees, near whom he happened to be sitting, and speaking in an awe-struck whisper.

“Why, yes, Honey, Joe was born in a cabin nex’ where he lives to-day, an’ we was all slaves down here ‘fo’ de wah, but de coloured folks here at Arlington was always treated ver’ han’some. I wasn’t so fortunate, Honey—I belonged down to a plantation in Georgia, where de Missus was kind, but where our Master treated us des like cattle, an’ I had my only chile sold away from me, when she wasn’t no mo’ den fo’teen or fifteen, an’ I don’ know ter this day whether she be livin’ or daid.”

“Oh, Mammy!” was all Allan could say in reply, but his little face looked worlds of sympathy.

Meanwhile Joe and Colonel Anderson between them went on with the story of Arlington, now one and now the other taking up its thread. Joe told of the many cosy cabins at that time dotted about the place in which the slaves lived, and of their happy life on a plantation where they all felt as though they were part of the household, and took as great pride and pleasure as the Master himself in everything belonging to it. He described, too, to the great delight of the children, the wild excitement of the Autumn hunting parties, when Mr. Custis and a whole houseful of guests would start off at sunrise, coming home at night with their game-bags full to a banquet in the house and an evening of unbounded fun and merriment. The Colonel told about the house itself, for from the time he became a young man until the day when, about to take command of a Washington regiment, he came to say goodbye to Lieutenant Lee, he had been a constant visitor there. He told of the luxury and comfort of the delightful home, now so bare and desolate; of the pretty sewing-rooms in the right wing, set apart for Mrs. Custis and Miss Mary; of the cosy library in the left wing, and then of the pictures painted on the walls by Mr. Custis. The pictures represented five of the battles of the Revolution, and Washington was the central figure in them all. There is just a trace of some of his work left now on the rear entrance of the wide hall, but Colonel Anderson admitted they could never have been considered very fine, rather detracting than adding to the other beautiful finishings of the house.

“But what became of all the beautiful things and how did the place ever happen to become a national cemetery?” asked Courage in one of the pauses, when both Joe and the Colonel seemed to be casting about in their minds for what would best be told next. She had listened as intently as any of the children to the whole narrative, and was every whit as much interested. "Well, it seems to me that is almost a story in itself,” Colonel Anderson answered, “and that we would better have out the luncheon baskets and take a bit of rest.”

Even the children agreed but half-heartedly at first to this interruption, but the avidity with which they afterward settled down to sandwiches and sponge cake showed that they really had minds not above the physical demands of life.