“Where are you going?” asked he who held the bridle-rein.

“Home, to my family.”

“What have you got in your saddle-bags?” was next asked.

“Nothing but a calico dress for my wife.”

“Well, hand it out; I know a ‘print’ when I see it,” responded he who had made the threatening demonstrations towards the saddle-bags—­was even then diving in them.

“O, Uncle Squire,” cried Roberta, “won’t they give the calico dress back to him?  Poor Mrs. Shanks needs it awfully.  The one she has on is all faded, and her elbows are out.”

“If he’s gotter calicer dress en thar fur her,” grunted old Squire, “‘twill be de fus’.  I heered her say he never give her de rappens ob her finger, en dat she wuden min’ hees whippen’ her ef hee’d unly previde fur her.”

He who was diving in Mr. Shanks’ saddle-bags, drew thence a long slip of white paper with something printed on it in black letters.  He cleared his throat, and read aloud the following: 

“Fellow-citizens, I took up arms for my country in the War of 1812, and were it not for the infirmities of age, would be again in the saddle, to drive that notorious horse-thief and scoundrel, John Morgan, from the State.”

“You would, hey?” said the soldier.  “Well, wait here a little, and see what General Morgan says about that.”

A dust was even then arising ahead, and in a few moments a squad of Confederates dashed up.  The foremost one, a soldierly looking-man, with a pair of keen, humorous eyes, halted beside the group on the hill-side.

“What are you detaining this gentleman for?” he asked, in a clear, ringing voice; “we are not making war on citizens.”

“Well; but, General, just see this circular,” handing him one.

General Morgan took it, glanced over it, then with a shrug of his shoulders and a “pshaw!” dropped it to the ground, and rode on.  The vidette followed him.

“Well; but, General, what must we do with the prisoner?”

“Do?” responded the General, “Do?  Why, turn him loose.  He is nothing but a little constable.”

Up to the moment Roberta heard the circular read, her sympathies were all with Mr. Shanks, the poor man looked so terribly frightened.  He had started out with his circulars, not knowing the Confederates were within a hundred miles; and he expected every moment to have a bullet put through his brain, or be swung up to the nearest limb.  When she heard the circular read, the wind veered from another quarter altogether.

As the soldiers rode off, the released prisoner came swiftly towards Squire and the children.

“I wish you would let me empty these drotted things under them ‘taters an’ apples, thar,” he said.

Roberta came forward before Squire could reply.

“No, indeed, you can’t put those dreadful things in our wagon.  No, indeed.  I heard what you said about my Uncle Charlie, just the dearest and best man on this earth.”