"Well," drawled the quiet voice, "you don't have to."
Emmeline, standing with one foot on the step of the porch, considered. She had taken one bite of the biscuit. Although she was wretchedly hungry, she could eat no more.
"Will you let me go if I bake you some?" Emmeline asked.
"I'll see," answered Private Christy.
The cook had left his stove, and Emmeline went to work with the familiar utensils—the yellow bowl, the wooden spoon. When the biscuits were in the oven, she looked up to find the doorway crowded with soldiers; some of them were bandaged like Private Christy; all of them were thin and deeply tanned.
"Are you going to give we-all some of them real biscuit?" asked an eager voice.
Emmeline's face flushed crimson; the position of almsgiver to her enemy was not altogether unhappy. "I'll see," she answered.
When one pan was taken from the oven, Emmeline had another ready and then another and another. Emmeline grew warmer and warmer and her cheeks rosier and rosier.
"Now," said Emmeline, "you can watch that last pan. I am going home."
"But I haven't had any!" cried Private Christy. "Nobody here knows anything about watching and turning 'em! Oh, please, sissy, bake me a pan!"