atoes. Some
raiders have just dug up the last with their sabres and eaten them raw."

"Well, they'll certainly have colic," remarked Mrs. Lightfoot, with
professional interest.

"I hope so," said Betty, "but I've come over to beg something for mamma's
supper--eggs, chickens, anything except bacon. She can't touch that, she'd
starve first."

Looking anxious, Mrs. Lightfoot appealed to Aunt Rhody, who was busily
spreading little squares of sweet potatoes on the clean boards. "Rhody,
can't you possibly find us some eggs?" she inquired.

Aunt Rhody stopped her work and turned upon them all the dignity of two
hundred pounds of flesh.

"How de hens gwine lay w'en dey's done been eaten up?" she demanded.

"Isn't there a single chicken left?" hopelessly persisted the old lady.

"Who gwine lef' 'em? Ain' dose low-lifeted sodgers dat rid by yestiddy done
stole de las' one un 'um off de nes'?"

Mrs. Lightfoot sternly remonstrated.

"They were our own soldiers, Rhody, and they don't steal--they merely
take."

"I don' see de diffunce," sniffed Aunt Rhody. "All I know is dat dey pulled
de black hen plum off de nes' whar she wuz a-settin'. Den des now de
Yankees come a-prancin' up en de ducks tuck ter de water en de Yankees dey
went a-wadin' atter dem. Yes, Lawd, dey went a-wadin' wid dey shoes on."

The old lady sighed.

"I'm afraid there's nothing, Betty," she said, "though Congo has gone to
town to see if he can find any fowls, and I'll send some over if he brings
them. We had a Sherman pudding for dinner ourselves, and I know the sorghum
in it will give the Major gout for a month. Well, well, this is war, I
reckon, and I must say, for my part, I never expected it to be conducted
like a flirtation behind a fan."

"I nuver seed no use a-fittin' unless you is gwine ter fit in de yuther
pusson's yawd," interpolated Aunt Rhody. "De way ter fit is ter keep
a-sidlin' furder f'om yo' own hen roos' en nigher ter de hen roos' er de
somebody dat's a-fittin' you."

"Hold your tongue, Rhody," retorted Mrs. Lightfoot, and then drew Betty a
little to one side. "I have some port wine, my dear," she whispered, "which
Cupid buried under the old asparagus bed, and I'll tell him to dig up
several bottles and take them to you. The other servants don't know of it,
so I can't get it out till after dark. Poor Julia! how does she stand these
terrible days?"

Betty's lips quivered. "I have to force her to eat," she replied, "and it
seems