“Why didn’t you tell one of the men, Hal or Val Tracy?” demanded the elder woman with a trace of severity in her tone.
“Because I wouldn’t give him up,” Dorothea maintained stoutly. “I’m not a real Rebel. I’m British; and though I do believe the South is right I don’t think they should hunt men with dogs. And, Cousin Imogene, I mean to do all I can to help him.”
“Do you know who he is?” was the next question. Dorothea’s plea did not seem to have made any impression on the little lady, who suddenly had grown rather imperious and whose gentleness had dropped from her like a cloak.
“No, of course not,” Dorothea answered, surprised. “But he’s a Federal officer and he’s been on the porch roof all night without anything to eat and—”
“Light a candle and bring it here,” her cousin commanded, dropping to her knees as Dorothea obeyed.
With a deft hand Miss Imogene turned the face of the shrunken figure to the light. As she looked at it she gave a smothered cry.
“It’s Larry Stanchfield!” she exclaimed and at the name the man opened his eyes and looked up at the two leaning over him.
For an instant there was silence, and then Miss Imogene spoke in a strained voice.
“I’ll help you, Dorothea,” she said. “Go lock the door.”