"He's well; God bless him! Well!"
The tone was deep and tender, proud, but as reverent as the baby's prayer for her father's immunity from harm; yet the man who spoke sank back into his seat, closing his eyes and repeating slowly, sadly:
"He's well; God bless him! But he's tired, darling—mighty tired."
"Daddy," the soldier's daughter asked, "will you tell him somethin'—from me?"
"Yes, dear. What?"
"Tell him," said the child, with a thoughtful glance at Miss Susan Jemima across the table, "tell him, if he ever marches along this way, I'll come over to his tent and rub his head, like I do yours—if he'll let me—till he goes to sleep." She clasped her fingers and looked into her father's eyes, hopefully, appealingly. "Do you think he would, if—if I washed my hands—real clean?"
The Southerner bit his lip and tried to smile.
"Yes, honey, I know he would! And think! He sent a message—to you."
"Did he?" she asked, wide-eyed, flushed with happiness. "What did he say, Daddy? What?"
"He said," her father answered, taking her hands in his: "'She's a brave little soldier, to stay there all alone. Dixie and I are proud of her!'"