“You shan’t shoot Colonel Morrison,” cried this astonishing new comer in tones of shrill command as she stamped her little foot:  “I won’t let you!  You shan’t!  You shan’t!”

A moment of displeased surprise on the part of the General.  Then—­

“Take the child out of here,” he ordered.

“I won’t go!” answered Virgie, tossing her curls back and standing her ground with’ angry eyes.

“Orderly!” called the General.

With a whirl Virgie dashed away from the desk, eluded the orderly and threw herself into her father’s arms.

“Oh, Daddy, Daddy!  You won’t let him shoot the Colonel.  Daddy, you won’t!  You won’t!” She burst into a passionate flood of tears.

Cary lifted his hand to the General in a plea for a moment’s respite from force.

“General—­please.  She’ll go.”

He turned to the sobbing child and shook her gently.  “Virgie!  Virgie!  Listen, honey! Remember General Lee!” The bowed head rose from her father’s shoulder; the little shoulders stiffened, and eye to eye she looked into the face of Cary as his pleading voice went on:  “He wouldn’t want you to cry like this.  He said—­’She’s a brave little soldier to stay there all alone.  Dixie and I are proud of her.’”

The Littlest Rebel’s chin went up, and she bravely choked back her sobs.  If this was what her General wanted, this her General would have, though childhood’s sobs are hard to check when a little heart is aching for the pain of those she loves.

“Go now, darling,” her father pleaded.  “Go.”

She kissed him, and turned in silent, slow obedience, casting a scowl at the grim and silent General Grant, then moved toward the guarded door.

“Wait!” said a quiet voice.

“Harris!  They say that fools and children speak the truth.”  He paused and then said gently:  “Come here, little girl.  Come here and talk to me.”

Somewhat in fear now that the kind voice robbed her of her anger the little pale faced child choked down her sobs and came slowly forward to the desk.  But, as she stood there, her courage returned and, marvel of marvels, her tiny hand went up in imitation of a salute.

Grant dropped his chin in his hand so that their heads were nearly on a level across his desk and looked at her with gentle kindness in his eyes.

“The Littlest Rebel, eh?” he said in low tones.  “How old are you?”

“S-s-s-even.  Goin’ on eight,” responded Virgie, gulping down a sob and nervously fingering her tattered dress.

“Ah, yes,” he nodded.  “And do you know the uniform of a Union officer—­when you see it?”

Virgie’s small mouth dropped open at the absurdity of the question and she almost laughed.

“A Yankee?” she queried with scorn.  “Well, I reckon I ought to—­by this time.”

“Very good,” the brown bearded man nodded, and gently blew smoke at the ceiling.  “Now, tell me.  When you lived at home—­and afterwards in your cabin—­did your father come to see you often?”