“Well, we will find him,” said Roberta.

There was a whispered consultation between the three, Mam’ Sarah, Roberta and the soldier.  It seemed entirely satisfactory.  And then Mam’ Sarah told Roberta they must hurry home on account of her mammy.  “We kin cum back, honey, en find him.”

And come back they did.  They found him and washed the blood away from the poor mangled features, straightening out the twisted limbs as well as they could.  Roberta took charge of the little pocket Bible with his name written on the fly-leaf, and the picture of his mother, such a stately, beautiful lady.  Albert Kurl’s body was not the only one they looked for.  Mam’ Sarah’s tears fell like rain, as she went from one to another searching for curly-haired Mars Charley, the little boy she nursed.  She would have known him, she was sure, no matter how he looked.  But, thank God, he was not there.  She remembered so well the morning he rode off on his prancing horse, with the bands playing Dixie.

“Charlie,” called Aunt Betsy, “take this Bible with you.”

“O Auntie,” laughed the merry young fellow, “I can’t, but I’ll promise to say, ‘Now I lay me down to sleep’ every night.”

“O, what duz make fo’ks git so mad with ech other?” said Mam’ Sarah.  “It will all cum rite, if they’ll only hol’ back en trust God.”

Just before tea, Roberta ran down to uncle Squire’s cabin, on the hill back of the spring-house.  She told him she had a secret for his ears alone, made him look under the bed, the cup-board, chairs, and every place, to be sure there were no eaves-droppers.  Then she sat down on a stool and slided it along towards him.  He edged his chair a little closer towards her, so by the time she began her communication their heads almost touched.  It was comical to see the old man’s various facial expressions while the child talked.  He would squint his eyes like he was trying to sight something away ahead of him, puffed out his cheeks till they resembled an inflated bellows.  Finally, slapped his thigh vigorously, blurting out, “You iz er sharp one, Lil Misus, you won’ never ’go fru er thicket en pick up er ‘oop-pole’, he-he-he.”

“Can you manage it for me, Uncle Squire?” asked the child anxiously.

“Ob cose I kin, Lil Misus, ob cose I kin.  Squire’s your man.”

“O, you dear, good, Uncle Squire,” cried the delighted child.  “I feel like hugging you.”

The old man twisted around in his seat and went through his facial pantomimes again, pretty much on the principle of a dog wagging his tail when he is fed.

Roberta was feeding him with the daintiest of food, the nectar of the gods to all of us, old and young, high and low.

Although it was July, there was a bed of glowing embers on the stone hearth, where Uncle Squire was cooking his supper.  He liked the independence of it.  A pot of steaming coffee stood close beside the fire, slices of middling meat were broiling on the coals, and an ash cake slowly browning.  He nodded his head toward them, on hospitable thoughts intent.