“Daddy,” broke out a piping voice, “don’t you think we’d better make this Yankee horse get up a little?  ‘Cause—­’cause somethin’ else might happen before we get there.”

“It’s all right, Virgie,” her father answered, with a pat on her small, brown knee.  “These lines are ours, and I reckon we are safe at last.”

They were.  Two Rebels on a Yankee horse soon made their triumphant entry into Richmond.  They passed through Rockets, by the half-deserted wharves on the river bank where a crippled gunboat lay, then clattered over the cobble stones up Main Street till they reached the Square.  On the State House the Stars and Bars still floated; but the travelers did not pause.  Northward they turned, then westward again, till they stopped at last before a silent, stately mansion, the headquarters of their General—­General Lee.

Before the open door two sentries stood, but as Cary and his charge dismounted an orderly came down the steps and out of the iron gate.  A word or two from Cary and the orderly disappeared into the house, returning soon with word that the visitors would be received—­at once.

Up the stone steps went Virgie, holding tightly to her father’s hand, for now, as she neared her General, her little heart was pounding, and her breath came eagerly and fast.

On the threshold of a dim and shaded room they paused and looked.  He sat there, at a table strewn with war maps and reports—­a tall gray man in a coat of gray—­the soldier and the gentleman.

As father and child came in he rose to meet them, looking at the two with eyes that seemed to hold the sadness and the tenderness of all the world.

He knew their story; in fact, he had bent his every effort to the saving of Cary’s life.  He had sent a courier to the camp of General Grant below the city, asking a stay of sentence till the facts in the case were cleared; and only a half hour before his courier had returned with news of the prisoner’s release.

And now, as he advanced and gave a courtly welcome to his trusted scout, the hand of the Littlest Rebel once more went up in salute to a superior officer.

“Gen’ral,” she said, as she stole a glance at her father’s smiling face, “I’ve brought him back—­with—­with the pass you gave me, sir.”

And the General stooped—­six feet of him—­till his lips were on a level with Virgie’s lips; then folded her closely into his great gray arms.

THE END

PEACE

  Hushed is the rolling drum.  The bugle’s note
    Breathes but an echo of its martial blast;
  The proud old flags, in mourning silence, float
    Above the heroes of a buried past. 
  Frail ivy vines ’round rusting cannon creep;
    The tattered pennants droop against the wall;
  The war-worn warriors are sunk in sleep,
    Beyond a summons of the trumpet’s call.