"You can't get in!" cried Emmeline. "It isn't your house! You—"
"Look here," interrupted a rough voice, "get this door open! Stop your crying and keep out of the way!"
The new comer set his shoulder against the door. The old latch held for an instant, and then, as the soldier gave another sharper thrust, the hasp tore from the wood. Emmeline grew still paler. From the porch she could see farther over the country; on hills and fields men were still marching, horses were still being led or driven, cannon and caissons were rumbling along.
The soldier who had burst open the door was now in Grandmother Willing's kitchen. He threw wide the shutters, and rattled the lids of the stove, and opened the doors of the cupboard.
Once more little Emmeline protested furiously:—
"You can't touch those things!"
The soldier lifted a handful of kindling from the box by the stove, and heaping it into the fire box, lighted it.
"Can you bake?" he demanded rudely.
Emmeline did not answer. Could she bake? She had been taught here in this very kitchen, she had mixed her dough in that very bowl on the table, and had set her rising in that old-fashioned bread trough in the pantry. Would she bake? Never while breath was in her body!
Men were now crowding in at the door; an army wagon had stopped at the gate, and rough soldiers were bringing in great coffee-pots and cans. One of them brought Grandmother Willing's hens and roosters, headless, plucked, ready for the pot. Emmeline backed farther and farther into the corner, speechless and tearful.