Soon the boy from the next farmhouse crossed the fields again. The battle was over, the Northern arms were victorious, Gettysburg was safe.
"Now," said Grandmother Willing, "I want to go home."
Grandfather Willing pondered. He had been studying a route that he thought they could safely follow. He knew all the byroads and all the farmers' lanes across the fields.
"You stay here, mother. I wish you would stay here."
Grandmother Willing gave her husband one look, and then lifted her cat, Tiger, into his basket.
In the mysterious dusky light of the Willing farmhouse, Emmeline and her brother Henry had stood for a long moment in one another's arms. They dared not accept with too much enthusiasm this sudden joy. The rain was beating on the roof and the windows. The delirious mutterings of the other inhabitants of the house had died away.
"O Emmeline!" said Henry again. "Little Emmeline, is it you?"
"Yes," said Emmeline, with a long sigh, "it is."
"How are they at home?"