"My cousin Norris told me that the Yankees have bread every day; an' tea—an' milk—an' everything. An' butter!"
This last-named article of common diet was mentioned with an air of reverential awe; and, somehow, it hurt the well-fed Union officer far more than had she made some direct accusation against the invading armies of the North.
"Don't, Virgie—please," he murmured softly. "There are some things we just can't bear to listen to—even in times of war." He sighed and dropped into his former seat, striving gently to change the subject. "You have lived here—always?"
"Oh, no," she assured him, with a lift of her small, patrician brows. "This is the overseer's house. Our house used to be up on the hill, in the grove."
"Used to be—?"
"Yes, sir. But—but the Yankees burnt it up."
Morrison's fist came down on the table with a crash. He remembered now his raid of some months before upon this same plantation, so unfamiliar in its present neglected state. Again he looked into the fearless eyes of a Southern gentlewoman who mocked him while her lover husband swam the river and escaped. Again he saw the mansion wrapped in flame and smoke—the work of a drunken fiend in his own command. Yes, he remembered now; too well; then he turned to the child and spoke:
"Tell me about it. Won't you?"
She nodded, wriggled from her chair, and stood beside the table.
"Oh, it was a long time ago—a month, maybe—an' they came after our horses. Mamma an' me were all by ourselves—'ceptin' Uncle Billy and Sally Ann. An' we were dreadful scared—an' we hid in the ice house."