“But you are dressing,” said Jeanne. “I will too.”
“I always get up when the regiment does,” answered Bob. “But you are different. You are a guest.”
“What are you?” asked Jeanne curiously.
“The Colonel’s daughter, and the child of the regiment. What is your name?”
“Jeanne Vance. I live in New York city.”
“That is a long way from here,” said Bob. “Do you mind telling me why you came down here?”
“I think I should like to,” replied Jeanne gazing at the trim figure of the girl admiringly. She was clad in a suit of gray cloth consisting of a skirt and close fitting jacket with epaulets upon the shoulders. A cap of the same material was perched jauntily upon her raven black hair. Her face, piquant and sparkling, was tanned a healthy brown through which the red of her cheeks glowed brightly. Jeanne thought that she had never seen a more charming girl, and, rebel though she knew she was, she felt her heart drawn toward her.
“Yes, I think that I should like to tell you,” she repeated, and then as rapidly as possible she told of her mission and the events that had followed its execution.
Bob listened attentively.
“It was awfully mean in your aunt to treat you the way she did,” she commented as Jeanne finished her story. “You are a brave girl even if you are a Yankee, and I like you. Father says there are some nice ones, but I reckon that they haven’t so awfully many brave ones among them, or we wouldn’t be whipping them so.”