On the chair she placed a wooden box, perching the doll on top and taking a seat herself just opposite.  She emptied the blackberries into a mutilated plate, brought from the cupboard a handful of toasted acorns, on which she poured boiling water, then set the concoction aside to steep.

“Now, Miss Susan Jemima,” said Virgie, addressing her vis-a-vis with the hospitable courtesy due to so great a lady, “we are goin’ to have some breakfas’.”  She paused, in a shade of doubt, then smiled a faint apology:  “It isn’t very much of a breakfas’, darlin’, but we’ll make believe it’s waffles an’ chicken an’—­an’ hot rolls an’ batter-bread an’—­an’ everything.”  She rose to her little bare feet, holding her wisp of a skirt aside, and made a sweeping bow.  “Allow me, Miss Jemima, to make you a mos’ delicious cup of coffee.”

And, while the little hostess prepared the meal, a man looked out from the partly open door behind her, with big dark eyes, which were like her own, yet blurred by a mist of pity and of love.

“Susan,” said the hostess presently, “it’s ready now, and we’ll say grace; so don’t you talk an’ annoy your mother.”

The tiny brown head was bowed.  The tiny brown hands, with their berry-stained fingers, were placed on the table’s edge; but Miss Susan Jemima sat bolt upright, though listening, it seemed, to the words of reverence falling from a mother-baby’s lips: 

“Lord, make us thankful for the blackberries an’ the aco’n coffee an’—­an’ all our blessin’s; but please, sir, sen’ us somethin’ that tastes jus’ a little better—­if you don’t mind.  Amen!”

And the man, who leaned against the door and watched, had also bowed his head.  A pain was in his throat—­and in his heart—­a pain that gripped him, till two great tears rolled down his war-worn cheek and were lost in his straggling beard.

“Virgie!” he whispered hoarsely.  “Virgie!”

She started at the sound and looked about her, wondering; then, as the name was called again, she slid from her chair and ran forward with a joyous cry: 

“Why, Daddy!  Is it you?  Is—­”

She stopped, for the man had placed a finger on his lip and was pointing to the door.

“Take a look down the road,” he ordered, in a guarded voice; and, when she had reached a point commanding the danger zone, he asked, “See anybody?—­soldiers?” She shook her head.  “Hear anything?”

She stood for a moment listening, then ran to him, and sprang into his waiting arms.

“It’s all right, Daddy!  It’s all right now!”

He raised her, strained her to his breast, his cheek against her own.

“My little girl!” he murmured between his kisses.  “My little rebel!” And as she snuggled in his arms, her berry-stained fingers clasped tightly about his neck, he asked her wistfully, “Did you miss me?—­awful much?”

“Yes,” she nodded, looking into his eyes.  “Yes—­in the night time—­when the wind was talkin’; but, after while, when—­Why, Daddy!” He had staggered as he set her down, sinking into a chair and closing his eyes as he leaned on the table’s edge.  “You are hurt!” she cried.  “I—­I can see the blood!”