The wounded Southerner braced himself.

“No, dear, no,” he strove to reassure her.  “It isn’t anything; only a little scratch—­from a Yank—­that tried to get me.  But he didn’t, though,” the soldier added with a smile.  “I’m just—­tired.”

The child regarded him in wondering awe, speaking in a half-breathed whisper: 

“Did he—­did he shoot at you?”

Her father nodded, with his hand on her tumbled hair.

“Yes, honey, I’m afraid he did; but I’m so used to it now I don’t mind it any more.  Get me a drink of water, will you?” As Virgie obeyed in silence, returning with the dripping gourd, the man went on:  “I tried to get here yesterday; but I couldn’t.  They chased me when I came before—­and now they’re watching.”  He paused to sip at his draught of water, glancing toward the carriage road.  “Big fight down the river.  Listen!  Can you hear the guns?”

“Yes, plain,” she answered, tilting her tiny head.  “An’ las’ night, when I went to bed, I could hear ’em—­oh! ever so loud:  Boom!  Boom!  Boom-boom!  So I knelt up an’ asked the Lord not to let any of ’em hit you.”

Two arms, in their tattered gray, slipped round the child.  He kissed her, in that strange, fierce passion of a man who has lost his mate, and his grief-torn love is magnified in the mite who reflects her image and her memory.

“Did you, honey?” he asked, with a trembling lip.  “Well, I reckon that saved your daddy, for not one shell touched him—­no, not one!” He kissed her again, and laughed.  “And I tell you, Virgie, they were coming as thick as bees.”

Once more he sipped at the grateful, cooling draught of water, when the child asked suddenly: 

“How is Gen’ral Lee?”

Down came the gourd upon the table.  The Southerner was on his feet, with a stiffened back; and his dusty slouch hat was in his hand.

“He’s well; God bless him!  Well!”

The tone was deep and tender, proud, but as reverent as the baby’s prayer for her father’s immunity from harm; yet the man who spoke sank back into his seat, closing his eyes and repeating slowly, sadly: 

“He’s well; God bless him!  But he’s tired, darling—­mighty tired.”

“Daddy,” the soldier’s daughter asked, “will you tell him somethin’—­from me?”

“Yes, dear.  What?”

“Tell him,” said the child, with a thoughtful glance at Miss Susan Jemima across the table, “tell him, if he ever marches along this way, I’ll come over to his tent and rub his head, like I do yours—­if he’ll let me—­till he goes to sleep.”  She clasped her fingers and looked into her father’s eyes, hopefully, appealingly.  “Do you think he would, if—­if I washed my hands—­real clean?”

The Southerner bit his lip and tried to smile.

“Yes, honey, I know he would!  And think!  He sent a message—­to you.”

“Did he?” she asked, wide-eyed, flushed with happiness.  “What did he say, Daddy?  What?”