“He was in Abner’s regiment,” whispered Jack. “He was wounded at Lexington, but not much. He doesn’t drink now, Deb, and he thinks of you a lot. Old Morris wasn’t going to let you know for he is afraid of Mrs. Lane; and there was something in the letter about wishing he’d told you the rest of a story for fear something might happen to him.”
“Did he?” Debby braced herself against the tree, and in the dusk Jack, and all familiar things were blotted out.
“Did—he—say—that? And—he—thinks—of—me—and he does not—drink—any—more? Oh! father!”
The year of suppression and heartache rolled away. From the almost forgotten past came the words: “Stay with father, Debby, like a good little maid.”
Had she been a boy nothing would have kept her from following, like a dog, at his heels. Drunk or sober she would have stayed with father. Out somewhere, alone and wounded, he was thinking of her, and trying to be better for her sake.
And she? why she was becoming a bad girl; a girl who was whipped and half starved at times, yet never growing better.
Should being a girl keep her longer from the only one who loved her and could make her happy? No, a thousand times no!
“Jack!” she sobbed, her eyes blazing, “I am going to father! I am going to be a drummer boy myself! See to it that you keep my secret. If you tell, and I am brought back, I’ll, I’ll—but you won’t tell Jack, I know you won’t, not if they should drag your tongue out!”
“Go!” cried Jack, “you in that boy’s toggery? I won’t let you!” He stood in her path.
“Won’t let me!” The girl towered above him in her anger, “if you stand in my way Jack Martin, I’ll knock you down! Where’s the drum?”