"It isn't a question of wanting to fight," he replied. "It's a question of duty."
"Oh." She sat down and he took a chair beside her. "But you were out of it. No one would have said that it was your duty to run the danger of going through the Union pickets."
He wished that she would not talk about the war. It was unpleasant, this lying to a girl. With Mr. Beecham it was different. Then he remembered that she had said "Union pickets," instead of "Yankee pickets." It struck him as strange, coming from a Southern girl.
"Tell me about your home," she asked.
He gave a rather sketchy description of his imaginary home in Fleming County, Kentucky—a none too convincing description. Then he tried to change the subject by asking her if she had always lived with the Beechams.
"No—not always," she answered. "Is Fleming Cou…."
"And is your name Beecham?" he interrupted, anxious to avoid the subject of
Fleming County.
"My name is Landis," she answered. "Marjorie Landis. Is Fleming County very large?"
"No—no. Not very large. And where did you live before you came here?"
"With mother." It seemed to be her turn for evasion. "I presume," she continued, "that you know all the people in the county?"