"Gertrude," he answered softly, tenderly. "Gertrude Morrison. Would you like to see her picture?"
"Yes," said the little rebel, and stepped across the gulf which had lain between her and her enemy. "You can sit down if you want to. Jus' put Susan Jemima on the table."
"Thank you," returned her visitor, obeying instructions, seating himself and loosening the upper buttons of his coat. On his neck, suspended by a chain, was a silver locket containing the miniature of a plump and pretty child. It had lain there since the war began, through many a bivouac, many a weary march, and even in the charge he could feel it tapping against his breast; so now, as he held it out to Virgie, the father's hand was trembling.
"There she is. My Gertrude—my little Gertrude."
Virgie leaned forward eagerly.
"Oh!" she said, in unaffected admiration, "She's mighty pretty. She's—" The child stopped suddenly, and raised her eyes. "An' she's fat, too. I reckon Gertrude gets lots to eat, doesn't she?"
"Why, yes," agreed the father, thinking of his comfortable Northern home; "of course. Don't you?"
Virgie weighed the question thoughtfully before she spoke.
"Sometimes—when Daddy gets through the lines and brings it to me."
The soldier started violently, wrenched back from the selfish dream of happiness that rose as he looked at the picture of his child.