“Open up!” called a voice outside, but the little rebel closed her lips and sat staring at Susan Jemima across the table.  A silence followed, short, yet filled with dread; then came a low-toned order and the crash of carbine butts on the stout oak door.  For a time it resisted hopefully, then slowly its top sagged in, with a groaning, grating protest from its rusty hinges; it swayed, collapsed in a cloud of dust—­and the enemy swept over it.

They came with a rush; in the lead an officer, a naked saber in his fist, followed by a squad of grim-faced troopers, each with his carbine cocked and ready for discharge.  Yet, as suddenly as they had come, they halted now at the sight of a little lady, seated at table, eating berries, as calmly as though the dogs of war had never even growled.

A wondering silence followed, till broken by a piping voice, in grave but courteous reproof: 

“I—­I don’t think you are very polite.”

The officer in command was forced to smile.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” he apologized; “but am afraid, this time, I can’t quite help it.”  He glanced at the door of the adjoining room and turned to his waiting men, though speaking in an undertone:  “He’s in there, I guess.  Don’t fire if you can help it—­on account of the baby.  Now then!  Steady, boys!  Advance!”

He led the way, six troopers following, while the rest remained behind to guard the cabin’s open door.  Virgie slowly turned her head, with eyes that watched the officer’s every move; then presently she called: 

“Hey, there!  That’s my room—­an’ don’t you-all bother any of my things, either!”

This one command, at least, was implicitly obeyed, for in a moment the disappointed squad returned.  The carbine butts were grounded; the troopers stood at orderly attention, while their officer stepped toward the table.

“What’s your name, little monkey?”

Virgie raised her eyes in swift reproach.

“I don’t like to be called a monkey.  It—­it isn’t respectful.”

The Union soldier laughed.

“O-ho!  I see.”  He touched his hat and made her a sweeping bow.  “A thousand pardons, Mademoiselle.”  He shot his sword into its scabbard, and laughed again.  “Might I inquire as to what you are called by your—­er—­justly respectful relatives and friends?”

“Virgie,” she answered simply.

“Ah,” he approved, “and a very pretty name!  Virgie what?”

“My whole name is Miss Virginia Houston Gary.”

The soldier started, glanced at his troopers, then back to the child again: 

“Is Herbert Cary your father?”

He waited for her answer, and got it, straight from a baby’s shoulder: 

“Mister Herbert Cary is—­yes, sir.”

The enemy smiled and made her another bow.

“I stand corrected.  Where is your father now?”

Virgie hesitated.

“I—­I don’t know.”