Later on those same meadows are enveloped morn and eve in veils of floating white mist; the golden-rod is gone; the butterflies lie in their shroud; but grape-vines are loaded with rich purple clusters, ripened by the frost.  The beautiful persimmon trees glow with luscious fruit.  Roberta’s mother used to gather the persimmon apples and pack them away in glass jars, in alternate layers of fruit and sugar.  They are as nice as dates.  Wherever you turn the ground is covered with nuts—­hickories, walnuts, and chestnuts.  You can hear them “drop” every few seconds.  Sometimes I think our Kentucky woods were made for children.

That afternoon I am going to tell you about, when the forks of the road were reached, Squire lifted the children down, cautioning them against lingering too late, mounted his wagon and was about starting when there appeared a little ahead two horsemen riding abreast and coming directly toward the children.  They were dressed in gray, and sat their horses with the air of “Charlie has come to his own again,” softly singing snatches of “My Old Kentucky Home.”  Roberta could hardly believe her eyes.

“O, Uncle Squire, it’s the rebels, it’s the rebels!”

“Yes, it’s ’pintly dem,” he answered, a broad grin overspreading his face.

When they came up with the children they drew rein, and one of them reached out his hand to Roberta.  It was the soldier boy.

“Have you come for your gun?” asked she.

[Illustration:  “Have you come for your gun?” the child asked.  “Yes, and to see you,” was the reply.]

“Yes, and to see you.”

The child had no coquetry in her nature, else would have noticed the earnest look in the boy’s brown eyes that accompanied his significantly spoken words.  As it was, she only smiled and said: 

“Well, I kept it for you; and are you as hungry as you were that night?”

“Well, yes, I reckon so.  Soldiers generally are; at least our boys are.  But why do you ask?  I wanted you to forget how many beat biscuits I ate.”

“Because I’ve got a nice lunch here that I will give you.  Aunt Judy fixed it up for me to have a tea party in the woods.”

“Who were you going to have at your tea party—­Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox?”

“No, indeed,” said the child, a fine scorn kindling her features; “no, indeed.  We were going to have General Morgan and Uncle Charlie and you.  Of course it was make-believe.  That’s the way we play, but we like it ever so much.”

“Well, if I take your chicken fixings you can’t have any tea party.”

“O yes, I can.  I can just make-believe some hungry soldier has come along and eaten it all up.”

“There is no make-believe about that,” laughed the soldier; “that’s real.”

There was a smothered sound in the direction of Polly.  The boy turned toward her, evidently seeing her for the first time.

“What’s the matter with you, tar baby?”