A pretty girl of sixteen, with wistful blue eyes, approached a rough, wounded soldier. She carried a towel and tin basin of water.
"Can't I do something for you?" she asked the man in gray.
He smiled through his black beard into her sweet young face:
"No'm, I reckon not—"
"Can't I wash your face?" the girl pleaded.
The wounded man softly laughed.
"Waal, hit's been washed fourteen times to-day, but I'll stand it again, if you say so!"
The girl laughed and blushed and passed quickly on.
When all the grapes and peaches had been distributed save in one basket Socola looked at these enquiringly.
"And these, Miss Jennie—they're the finest of the lot?"