And Roxy responded eagerly: “You are welcome.”
“Don’t stand there! Run home. Somebody may see you,” said the voice again. “And promise me again that you’ll be my friend and keep my secret, and never tell anyone that you have seen me.”
“I won’t tell; truly I won’t,” Roxy promised. “But what are you running away from?”
“From a southern prison. I’m a Yankee soldier. I was taken prisoner at Manassas; and I’m sure those rebs on horseback were after me. Where is this place, anyway?” and now the young man pushed his head and shoulders out from behind the bushes, quite forgetting his cautions to his new friend.
“It’s Antietam,” replied Roxy; “where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere where there are Yankees. I’ve been hiding in the woods and swamps for days, and I’ve lost my bearings,” he replied, as he pulled a leg from the chicken and began to eat ravenously.
“I’m a Yankee, and so is my mother, and we are living up in that house,” said Roxy, pointing toward the farmhouse. “You needn’t hide,” she continued, “for I have heard my grandma say that Maryland is loyal to the Union. You come up to our house and Grandma will give you better things than cold chicken to eat; and—and”—Roxy hesitated a moment—“I guess she could give you some clothes.”
For a few moments the young man ate steadily; the greater part of the chicken disappeared, and he had seized on the cakes before he spoke again.
“A Yankee girl, are you? Tell me your name.”
“My name is Roxana Elizabeth Delfield, and I’m ’most ten,” Roxy replied, and added quickly: “My father is a Yankee soldier,” and now the young man fixed his glance upon her, and a little smile crept over his thin face.