“I’ll go if we take the short cut,” Dorothea answered, meaning a path through a strip of woods on the outskirts of the town, which was a most beautiful and densely shaded place running for miles through hill and swamp. It was a favorite resort of Dorothea’s, and she loved to wander along the narrow path, through the heavy undergrowth, and fancy herself far away from civilization.
Harriot consented to this cheerfully enough, although she had meant to drive to her aunt’s, and the two set off.
Corinne was not visible when they arrived, but Mrs. Stewart welcomed them with her usual cordiality.
“Make yourselves perfectly at home, my dears,” she said in greeting. “You will excuse me, I know; but I have so many things to do. We are leaving ’most any day now.”
She rambled on in this strain, coming and going in a great bustle of excitement through the room in which they sat, as if her departure really were imminent. She talked just as Dorothea had heard her talk by the hour, and so familiar was the theme that Dorothea soon lost the thread of it, her thoughts wandered off to other matters and she sat idly looking out of the window, which commanded a view of the driveway up to the house.
“I really don’t know where Corinne is,” Mrs. Stewart explained in one of her darts into the room. “I think she went into the village for something, but I can’t be sure. However, she will be home shortly, I suppose, if she doesn’t stay longer wherever she has gone.”
Dorothea smiled to herself as she heard the words, thinking that undoubtedly Mrs. Stewart was entirely correct in this statement; but not caring very much whether she saw Corinne or not.
“And, Harriot,” Mrs. Stewart went on, “you might go and see if there are not some refreshments to be had. Perhaps there is some fruit cake, but—”
Her voice trailed off as she and the quickly responsive Harriot left the room.
Alone, Dorothea looked out of the window, idly watching two people coming slowly toward the house. As they drew nearer she recognized that one of the pair was Corinne and beside her was a man, walking painfully with the aid of a crutch. She had no need to note that his tattered uniform was the Confederate gray, for the sight of wounded soldiers struggling back along the roads to their homes was familiar enough. They passed through the little town daily, singly or in groups of half a dozen, helping each other as best they might and depending upon the generosity of the inhabitants for their food from day to day. Of course every one was kind to them and they were one of the few sources of information coming into the place.