“He said,” her father answered, taking her hands in his:  “’She’s a brave little soldier, to stay there all alone.  Dixie and I are proud of her!’”

“Oh, Daddy, did he?  Did he?”

“Yes, dear, yes,” the soldier nodded; “his very words.  And look!” From his boot leg he took a folded paper and spread it on his knee.  “He wrote you a pass—­to Richmond.  Can you read it?”

Virgie leaned against her father’s shoulder, studying the paper long and earnestly; then, presently looked up, with a note of grave but courteous hesitation in her tone: 

“Well—­he—­well, the Gen’ral writes a awful bad hand, Daddy.”

Her father laughed in genuine delight, vowing in his heart to tell his general and friend of this crushing criticism, if ever the fates of war permitted them to meet again.

“Dead right!” he agreed, with hearty promptness.  “But come, I’ll read it for you.  Now then.  Listen: 

    “HEADQUARTERS OF THE ARMY OF NORTHERN VA.

    “Pass Virginia Cary and escort through all Confederate lines and
    give safe-conduct wherever possible.

    “R.E.  LEE, General.”

There was silence for a moment, then Virgie looked up, with tears in her eyes and voice.

“An’ he did that—­for little me?  Oh, Daddy, I love him so much, it—­it makes me want to cry.”

She hid her face on the coat of gray, and sobbed; while her father stroked her hair and answered soothingly, but in a tone of mourning reverie: 

“So do we all, darling; big grown men, who have suffered, and are losing all they love.  They are ragged—­and wounded—­hungry—­and, oh, so tired!  But, when they think of him, they draw up their belts another hole, and say, ‘For General Lee!’ And then they can fight and fight and fight—­till their hearts stop beating—­and the god of battles writes them a bloody pass!”

Again he had risen to his feet.  He was speaking proudly, in the reckless passion of the yet unconquered Southerner, only half-conscious of the tot who watched him, wondering.  So she came to him quickly, taking his hand in both her own, and striving to bring him comfort from the fountain of her little mother-heart.

“Don’t you worry, Daddy-man.  We’ll—­we’ll whip ’em yet.”

“No, dear—­no,” he sighed, as he dropped into his seat.  “We won’t.  It’s hard enough on men; but harder still on children such as you.”  He turned to her gravely, earnestly:  “Virgie, I had hoped to get you through to Richmond—­to-day.  But I can’t.  The Yankees have cut us off.  They are up the river and down the river—­and all around us, I’ve been nearly the whole night getting here; creeping through the woods—­like an old Molly-cotton-tail—­with the blue boys everywhere, waiting to get me if I showed my head.”

“But they didn’t, did they?” said Virgie, laughing at his reference to the wise old rabbit and feeling for the pockets of his shabby coat, “Did you—­did you bring me anything?”