The man looked at her as if puzzled, and repeated “Newburyport?” and then glanced at his companion who now dismounted and stood near his horse’s head.
“That’s not a Maryland town, is it?” he questioned, and Roxy eagerly replied:
“Oh, no! Newburyport is in Massachusetts. That’s my home, but my mother and I are visiting Grandma Miller!”
The two men glanced at each other in evident surprise, and the man who had first noticed Roxy said thoughtfully:
“I see! A little Yankee girl!” And at this Roxy’s smile vanished.
“‘Yankee girl!’ ‘Yankee girl!’ I wish I knew why you say that?” she exclaimed, her gray eyes looking steadily at the tall, gray-clad soldier.
“Oh, only because your home is in the North! I reckon your father is proud to be called a Yankee,” he replied kindly, and at this Roxy’s face brightened.
“Oh, thank you! Polly calls me ‘Yankee girl’ and I didn’t know why. But I shan’t care now,” she said, with a friendly nod at the tall man.
“We might take a road that leads through the hills here,” suggested the second soldier, and for a few moments the two soldiers bent their heads over a small map and seemed to forget the little girl, who stood watching them wonderingly.
“Good-bye,” said the good-natured soldier as he swung himself into the saddle. “You will see more soldiers in gray clothes here before the end of your visit, or I miss my guess; eh, Richard?” and he turned to his companion.