Mrs. Buckley looked at her daughter reprovingly.
“Your father is a minister of the gospel,” she said solemnly, “and he has shown that he can do good even to his enemies.”
Mr. Buckley arose, and listened to the sound of the retreating neighbors. Then he opened the door of the closet. Watson and George jumped out joyfully, half smothered though they were, and began to overwhelm the old man with thanks for their deliverance.
He drew himself up, however, and refused their proffered hand shakes. There was a stern look on his usually gentle face.
“I may have saved your necks,” he said, “because I would sacrifice no human life voluntarily, but I do not forget that you are enemies who have entered the South to do us all the harm you can.”
“Come,” said Watson, “it’s a mere difference of opinion. I don’t care what happens, George and I will never be anything else than your best friends!”
“That is true,” cried George; “you can’t call us enemies!”
The manner of the minister softened visibly; even Miss Cynthia looked less aggressive than before.
“Well, we won’t discuss politics,” answered Mr. Buckley. “You have as much right to your opinions as I have to mine. But I think I have done all I could be expected to do for you. Here, take this key, which unlocks the door of my barn, and crawl up into the hayloft where you can spend the night. If you are there, however, when I come to feed the horse, at seven o’clock to-morrow morning, I will not consider it necessary to keep silent to my neighbors.”
“Never fear,” said Watson, in genial tones; “we’ll be away by daylight. Good-bye, and God bless you. You have done something to-night that will earn our everlasting gratitude, little as that means. Some day this wretched war will be over—and then I hope to have the honor of shaking you by the hand, and calling you my friend.”