“Well—­” he cried, as Virgie suddenly sat back with a look of painful recollection on her face.

“Oh, Daddy,” she murmured pathetically, “don’t let’s call it blackberry wine.”

“Forgive me, darling,” her father said tenderly, and he took the small face between his hands and kissed her.  “There, now—­it’s all right.  It’s all right.”

To create a diversion he looked behind him with a frown and spoke with great severity to an imaginary waiter.

“Here, Jo!  How dare you bring such terribly reminiscent stuff to our table.  Go get the port.

“We’ll surely have to discharge that butler,” he said.  “He’s too shiftless.  And now, fair lady, will you honor me by joining the humblest of your admirers in a sip of port.”

“With pleasure,” answered his hostess, and lifted the can of water in both hands.  “Your health, sir.  May your shadow never grow littler.”

Half way through her drink Virgie stopped and slowly put the can down.  She looked at her father, who already had his finger at his lips.  Voices had come to them from down the road—­the sounds of a party of men talking and laughing as they marched along.

Cary’s face took on again the grim lines which had been wiped away momentarily by their little bit of play.  He was trying to make himself believe that the approaching party might be friends, although he knew only too well that such a possibility was full of doubt.  There were too many scouting parties of Federals ready to pounce on Rebel patrols in these perilous days to allow any but large forces of men to venture far from Richmond, and when his own men sallied forth they did not go with laughter but with tightly drawn, silent lips.

“S-s-s-h,” he whispered, and held up his finger again, as she seemed ready to burst into questioning.

Immediately she snuggled close to him and whispered hotly in his ear, “Who are they, Daddy?”

“I don’t know, honey,” he whispered back.  “But I’m afraid they’re Yanks.  Keep quiet till they pass.”  And quickly deserting the stone under the trees where they had had their “belt supper” he drew her with him behind the large ledge of rock from under which the spring flowed out.  Looking behind them he saw that with good luck they could reach the shelter of the woods and get up over the hill without being seen.  But just now they could not stir from their hiding place unless—­unless the men were Confederates.  This faint hope, however, soon flickered out when he saw the color of their uniforms.

Up the road came four dismounted men with a corporal in command.  They were taking it easy as they walked along, their caps thrust back, their coats open and their Sharps’ carbines carried in the variety of ways that a soldier adopts to ease his shoulder of the burden that grows heavier with every mile.

“Here’s the place, boys,” the Corporal called out as his eye fell on the spring.  “We can get some decent water, now.  That James River water’s too yellow for any white man to put inside of him.”