h anticipation. Then she paused and, with a little
cry of vexation over her selfishness, held out the biscuit to her
father.

"Here, Daddy," she said. "You take this--because you tried to bring me
somethin' good to eat yesterday."

The father threw a look at Morrison and caught Virgie to him in a swift
embrace.

"No, dear," he said. "Eat your nice buttered biscuit and thank the good
Lord for it. Your father will get more fun out of seeing you eat that
little bit than he would out of owning a whole cellar of big stone
crocks jam full. Do you know--I think when we get up to Richmond you'll
have to write a letter to the Colonel--a nice long letter, thanking him
for all he's done. Won't you?"

There was a pause for a moment as the child looked over at Morrison,
revolving the thought in her mind.

The Union officer had passed into a sudden reverie, the hand holding his
coffee cup hanging listlessly over his knee. He was thinking of another
little girl, and one as dear to him as this man's child was to her
father. He was wondering if the fortunes of war would ever let him see
her face again or hear her voice--or feel her chubby arms around his
neck. She was very, very far away--well cared for, it was true, but he
knew only too well that it would need but one malignant leaden missile
to make her future life as full of hardships as those which the little
tot beside him was passing through to-day. So much, at least, for the
ordinary chances of war--he was beginning to wonder how much had been
added to these perils by the matter of the pass and whether his
superiors would see the situation as it had appeared to his eyes.

Into this sad reverie Virgie's soft voice entered with a gentleness
which roused but did not startle him. When she spoke, it seemed as if
some subtle thought-current between their minds had put the subject of
his dreams into the child's mind.

"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 t