"Then perhaps we can have something better," her guest responded readily, and he picked up the battered old tin can. "Permit me, Miss Cary, to offer you a glass of fine old blackberry wine which I carefully brought with me to your beautiful home. It has been in my family wine cellars since 1838.
"Well—" he cried, as Virgie suddenly sat back with a look of painful recollection on her face.
"Oh, Daddy," she murmured pathetically, "don't let's call it blackberry wine."
"Forgive me, darling," her father said tenderly, and he took the small face between his hands and kissed her. "There, now—it's all right. It's all right."
To create a diversion he looked behind him with a frown and spoke with great severity to an imaginary waiter.
"Here, Jo! How dare you bring such terribly reminiscent stuff to our table. Go get the port.
"We'll surely have to discharge that butler," he said. "He's too shiftless. And now, fair lady, will you honor me by joining the humblest of your admirers in a sip of port."
"With pleasure," answered his hostess, and lifted the can of water in both hands. "Your health, sir. May your shadow never grow littler."
Half way through her drink Virgie stopped and slowly put the can down. She looked at her father, who already had his finger at his lips. Voices had come to them from down the road—the sounds of a party of men talking and laughing as they marched along.
Cary's face took on again the grim lines which had been wiped away momentarily by their little bit of play. He was trying to make himself believe that the approaching party might be friends, although he knew only too well that such a possibility was full of doubt. There were too many scouting parties of Federals ready to pounce on Rebel patrols in these perilous days to allow any but large forces of men to venture far from Richmond, and when his own men sallied forth they did not go with laughter but with tightly drawn, silent lips.