if he expected her to conserve any faith in his constancy.
That evening Jim Fisher almost regained his wonted cheerfulness. The other four brothers had gathered together to welcome the unexpected guest, and as they sat around a great wood fire in an old deserted farm-house, a primitive structure built of logs, with Millie and the youngest, favorite brother, Walter, in the centre, it seemed so joyful a reunion that he was almost tempted to forgive the manner in which it had come about.
Jim Fisher's body-servant, Cæsar, cooked a supper for them, in a room across an open passage, consisting of corn-bread, bean-coffee, bacon, and a chicken, which last came as a miracle, as he mysteriously expressed it, upon inquiry—"as de mussy ob Providence!" Cæsar was a brisk young darkey, with a capacity for a sullen and lowering change, and with a great distaste for ridicule, induced by much suffering as the butt of the practical jokes of his young masters, for among so many Fisher boys one or another must needs be always disposed for mirth.
"You needn't ax me so p'inted 'bout dat chicken's pedigree, Marse Watt," Cæsar was beguiled into retorting acrimoniously. "Naw, sah. I dunno. I dunno whedder hit's Dominicky or Shanghai. An' ye have no call to know whedder hit's foreign or native! I tell you hit's fried—an' dat's all I'm gwine ter tell you!—fried ter a turn! An' if you bed enny religion, you'd say grace, an' give Miss Millie a piece while it's hot. Naw, sah! naw, Marse Watt! I ain't no robber! Marse Jim—you hear what Marse Watt done call me! Naw, sah! I don't expec' ter see Satan!—not dis week, nohow."
Cæsar was glad to gather up the fragments and make off to the kitchen opposite, where he sat before the fire and crunched the last bone of the precious fowl, and grinned over the adroit methods of its capture on this great occasion, for such a luxury could hardly be bought at any price, in Confederate money or any other currency.
After supper was despatched something of a levee was held; so many of Miss Millie Fisher's old friends—officers in the military force—called to renew the acquaintance of happier times. And as she recognized the more intimate old playfellows or neighbors, with a gush of delighted little screams and a musical acclaim of their Christian names, sometimes an old half-forgotten nickname, other guests, later acquaintances, were envious and wistful, and sought to stem the tide of reminiscence, the "Don't you remembers" and "Oh-h-h, wasn't it funny?" and to impress the values of the present, despite the lures of the past.
She was delightfully gracious and gay with them all, and perhaps she had never seemed more lovely than the flicker of the firelight revealed her, for there were no other means of illumination. She stood to receive in the centre of the floor, radiant in her dark purple riding-habit and hat, the military figures, all in full uniform, clustering about her, some resting on their swords, some half leaning on a comrade's shoulder, while jest and repartee went around, the laughter now and again making the rafters ring. It was with reluctance that they gradually tore themselves away in obedience to a realization that after so long a separation the family might desire to spend the evening alone, for three of the brothers must needs repair to their own command at some distance at break of day, and it might be long before they could all be together once more.
So at last, the visitors gone, the door barred, the night wearing on, the Fishers gathered round the replenished fire, for the air was chill and the warmth was as welcome as the light. The deserted house was entirely bare of furniture, and as the force was a "flying column," flung forward without the impediments of baggage trains or tents, there was not even a camp-stool available. Millie and Watt sat side by side on a billet of wood, their arms around each other's waists to preserve the equilibrium, and the rest of the brothers half reclined on the saddles on the floor. And every face was smiling, and every head was red. Again and again a shout of laughter went up, as she detailed the news of the town,—and some very queer things, indeed, she told,—and Watt, the lieutenant, responded with the news of the battery and the camp.
Perhaps he felt that his prestige as a wit was threatened, for once he said, "I'd give a hundred dollars, Sister, to be assured that all you are telling is the truth."
"I wouldn't give a brass thimble to be assured that all you are telling is the truth, for I know 'tisn't!" retorted Millie.