“Do you reckon,” the child said, curiously, “that Gertrude is havin’ her supper now?”

The Union officer looked up with eyes that mutely blessed her.

“Yes, dear, I was thinking of her—­and her mother.”

Again he was silent for a space, and when he spoke, his voice was dreamy, tender, as he seemed to look with unseeing eyes far into the Northland where dwelt the people of his heart.

“Do you know, Cary, this war for us, the men, may be a hell, but what is it for those we leave at home?  The women!  Who wait—­and watch—­and too often watch in vain. We have the excitement of it—­the rush—­the battles—­and we think that ours is the harder part when, in reality, we make our loved ones’ lives a deeper, blacker hell than our own.  Theirs to watch and listen with the love hunger in their hearts, month in, month out and often without a word!  Theirs to starve on the crusts of hope!  Waiting—­always waiting!  Hunting the papers for the thing they dread to find; a name among the missing.  A name among the dead!  Good Heaven!  When I think of it sometimes—­” Morrison dropped his head between his clenched fists and groaned.

“Yes, yes, old fellow, I know,” the other man answered, for in truth he did know, “but I want you to remember that for you the crusts of hope will some day be the bread of life—­and love.”

Slowly the Northerner’s face came up out of his hands and he seemed to take heart again.  After all, he had led a charmed life so far—­perhaps the God of Battles had written his name among those who would some day go back to live the life for which the Almighty made them.  God grant then that he might have for his friend this man who, in the time of his own greater grief, was unselfish enough to console him.  Ah!  If God would only grant that from this day on there would be no more of this hideous fighting.  Morrison’s eyes met the other’s and he put out his hand.

Suddenly there came the sound of a shot.  Another and another—­then a volley, which almost at once became a continuous rattle of musketry.

The Northerner sprang to his feet.  “Look! there go your pickets.”

Struck dumb by this sudden return to the actualities of life the two men stood motionless, listening for every sound which might tell them what it meant.  For a little while they had dreamed the dream of peace only to have it rudely shattered.

But Virgie had not followed them in their dreams, for she was an extremely practical young lady.  Having seen food, real food, vanish away before her very eyes several times already she was quite prepared to see it happen again.

“There!” she said, in tones in which prophecy and resignation were oddly mingled.  “Didn’t I jus’ know somethin’ was goin’ to happen!”

By this time Morrison had run to the stone wall and sprung to its top.  Out in the road the troopers had mounted without waiting for command and with one accord had faced towards the firing.