“Yes—­my General.”

“An’ do you love him—­like I love Gen’ral Lee?”

“Yes, dear,” he answered earnestly; “of course.”

He wondered again to see her turn away in sober thought, tracing lines on the dusty floor with one small brown toe; for the child was wrestling with a problem.  If a soldier had orders from his general, as she herself might put it, “he was bound to come”; but still it was hard to reconcile such duty with the capture of her father.  Therefore, she raised her tiny chin and resorted to tactics of a purely personal nature: 

“An’ didn’t you know, if you hurt my daddy, I’d tell Uncle Fitz Lee on you?”

“No,” the Yankee smiled.  “Is he your uncle?”

The littlest rebel regarded him with a look of positive pity for his ignorance.

“He’s everybody’s uncle,” she stated warmly.  “An’ if I was to tell him, he’d come right after you an’—­an’ lick the stuffins out of you.”

The soldier laughed.

“My dear,” he confided, with a dancing twinkle in hip eye, “to tell you the honest truth, your Uncle Fitz has done it already—­several times.”

“Has he?” she cried, in rapturous delight.  “Oh, has he?”

“He has,” the enemy repeated, with vigor and conviction.  “But suppose we shift our conversation to matters a shade more pleasant.  Take you, for instance.  You see—­” He stopped abruptly, turning his head and listening with keen intentness.  “What’s that?” he asked.

“I didn’t hear anything,” said Virgie, breathing very fast; but she too had heard it—­a sound above them, a scraping sound, as of someone lying flat along the rafters and shifting his position and, while she spoke, a telltale bit of plaster fell, and broke as it struck the floor.

Morrison looked up, starting as he saw the outlines of the closely fitting scuttle, for the loft was so low and shallow that he had not suspected its presence from an outside view; but now he was certain of the fugitive’s hiding-place.  Virgie watched him, trembling, growing hot in the pit of her little stomach; yet, when he faced her, she looked him squarely in the eye, fighting one last battle for her daddy—­as hopeless as the tottering cause of the Stars and Bars.

“You—­you don’t think he can fly, do you?”

“No, little Rebel,” the soldier answered gently, sadly; “but there are other ways.”  He glanced at the table, measuring its height with the pitch of the ceiling, then turned to her again:  “Is your father in that loft?” She made no answer, but began to back away.  “Tell me the truth.  Look at me!” Still no answer, and he took a step toward her, speaking sternly:  “Do you hear me? Look at me!”

She tried; but her courage was oozing fast.  She had done her best, but now it was more than the mite could stand; so she bit her lip to stop its quivering, and turned her head away.  For a moment the man stood, silent, wondering if it was possible that the child had been coached in a string of lies to trade upon his tenderness of heart; then he spoke, in a voice of mingled pity and reproach: