“‘That’s right,’ said I finally.  ’I had to get them, but I did it in the kindest spirit.  I see you understand that.’

“‘Oh, I don’t care,’ she answered with her chin up—­a little way she had.  ‘They’re not much, anyway.  I hadn’t got to the important part.’

“‘Won’t you finish?’ said I politely, and pretended to offer her the papers—­and then I got serious.  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked her.  ‘Where are you going?’

“She looked up at me, and—­I knew she liked me.  She caught her breath before she answered.  ‘What right have you got to ask me questions?’ said she, making a bluff at righteous indignation.

“But I just gripped her fingers into mine—­it was getting to be a habit, holding her hand.

“‘And what are you doing here?’ she went on saucily, but her voice was a whisper, and she let her hand lie.

“‘I’ll tell you what I’m doing,’ said I.  ’I’m obeying the Bible.  My Bible tells me to love my enemies, and I’m going to.  I do,’ said I.  ‘What does your Bible tell you?’

“‘My Bible tells me to resist the devil and he will flee from me,’ she answered back like a flash, standing up straight and looking at me squarely, as solemn as a church.

“‘Well, I guess I’m not that kind of a devil,’ said I.  ’I don’t want to flee worth a cent.’

“And at that she broke into a laugh and showed all her little teeth at me.  That was one of the prettiest things about her, the row of small white teeth she showed every time she laughed.

“’Just at that second the old negro stuck his head in at the door.  ‘We’re busy, uncle,’ said I.  ’I’ll give you five dollars for five minutes.’

“But the girl put her hand on my arm to stop me, ’What is it, Uncle Ebenezer?’ she asked him anxiously.

“‘It’s young Marse, Miss Lindy,’ the man said, ’Him’n Marse Philip Breck’nridge ‘n’ Marse Tom’s ridin’ down de branch right now.  Close to hyer—­dey’ll be hyer in fo’-five minutes.’

“She nodded at him coolly.  ‘All right.  Shut the door, Uncle Ebenezer,’ said she, and he went out and shut it.

“And before I could say Jack Robinson she was dragging me into the next room, and pushing me out of a door at the back.

“‘Go—­hurry up—­oh, go!’ she begged.  ‘I won’t let them take you.’

“Well, I didn’t like to leave her suddenly like that, so I said, said I:  ‘What’s the hurry?  I want to tell you something.’

“‘No,’ she shot at me.  ‘You can’t.  Go—­won’t you, please go?’ Then I picked up a little hand and hold it against my coat.  I knew by now just how she would catch her breath when I did it.”

At about this point the General forgot me.  Such good comrades we were that my presence did not trouble him, but as for telling the story to me, that was past—­he was living it over, to himself alone, with every nerve in action.

“‘Look here,’ said I, ’I don’t believe a thing like this ever happened on the globe before, but this has.  It’s so—­I love you, and I believe you love me, and I’m not going till you tell me so.’