“What’s the matter?” asked the minister. “Anything wrong at the Jasons’?”
“Anything wrong at the Jasons’,” Miss Cynthia repeated, contemptuously. “No; there’s something wrong, but it isn’t over at Jasons’. Listen to this!” She held out the paper at arm’s length, as if she feared it, and read these lines:
“Pastor Buckley,
“Dear Sir:
“This is to notify you as how I just have had news that a party of Yankee spies is at large, right in our neighborhood. They stole a train to-day at Big Shanty, but they were obleeged to jump off only a few miles from here. So you must keep on the lookout—they are around—leastwise a boy and grown man have been seen, although most of the others seem to have gotten away. One of my sons—Esau—caught sight of this man and boy on the edge of the river late this afternoon. He says the boy had a dog.
“Yours,
“Charles Jason.”
After Miss Cynthia finished the reading of this letter there was a silence in the room almost tragic in its intensity. Watson sprang to his feet, as he threw his pipe on the hearth. Waggie woke up with a whine. The Reverend Mr. Buckley looked at Watson, and then at the sleeping boy in a dazed way—not angrily, but simply like one who is grievously disappointed. So, too, did Mrs. Buckley and her blue-eyed daughter.
Finally Miss Cynthia broke the silence.
“So you are Northern spies, are you?” she hissed. “And you come here telling us a story about your being so fond of the South that you must travel all the way from Kentucky to fight for her.” She threw the letter on the supper-table, while her eyes flashed.