“That will do,” he said, and gave a brusque command:  “Corporal, deploy your men and make a thorough search outside.  Examine the ground around the spring—­and report!”

“Yes, sir,” returned Corporal Dudley saluting and dropping his hand across his mouth to choke off an exclamation of anger.  Then he snarled at his men, to ease the pain of thwarted vengeance:  “’Tention!  Right face!  Forward!  March!”

The squad trooped out across the broken door, leaving their commanding officer alone with his rebel prisoner.

“Now, Virgie,” he asked, in a kindly tone, though holding her eyes with his, “do you mean to tell me—­cross your heart—­that you are here, just by yourself?”

“Er—­no, sir.”  As he opened his lips to speak, she pointed to her doll.  “Me an’ Susan Jemima.”

“Well, that’s a fact,” he laughed.  “Hanged if I’m not losing all my social polish.”  He gallantly removed his hat, bowed gravely to the cedar stick, and shook its hand.  “Charmed to make your acquaintance, Miss Susan, believe me.  My own name is Morrison—­Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison—­at your service.”  He turned to the little mother with a smile that showed a row of white and even teeth.  “And now,” he said, “since we are all informally introduced, suppose we have a quiet, comfortable chat.”  He paused, but she made no answer.  “Well?  Aren’t you going to ask me to have some breakfast?”

Virgie cast a troubled gaze into the plate before her.

“Er—­no, sir.”

“What?  Why not?”

She faltered, and answered slowly: 

“’Cause—­’cause you’re one of the damn Yankees.”

“Oh! oh! oh!” exclaimed the soldier, shocked to hear a baby’s lips profaned.  “Little girls shouldn’t use such words.  Why, Virgie!”

She raised her eyes, clear, fearless, filled with vindicating innocence.

“Well, it’s your name, isn’t it? Everybody calls you that.”

“Um—­yes,” he admitted, striving to check the twitching of his lips; “I suppose they do—­south of Washington.  But don’t you know we are just like other people?” She shook her head.  “Oh, yes, we are.  Why, I have a little girl at home—­not any bigger than you.”

“Have you?” asked Virgie, her budding racial prejudice at war with youthful curiosity.  “What’s her name?”

“Gertrude,” he answered softly, tenderly.  “Gertrude Morrison.  Would you like to see her picture?”

“Yes,” said the little rebel, and stepped across the gulf which had lain between her and her enemy.  “You can sit down if you want to.  Jus’ put Susan Jemima on the table.”

“Thank you,” returned her visitor, obeying instructions, seating himself and loosening the upper buttons of his coat.  On his neck, suspended by a chain, was a silver locket containing the miniature of a plump and pretty child.  It had lain there since the war began, through many a bivouac, many a weary march, and even in the charge he could feel it tapping against his breast; so now, as he held it out to Virgie, the father’s hand was trembling.