“I suppose not,” sighed Jeanne, “but it would be something to be with my own people.”
“We’ll see,” replied Bob. “Although I don’t like to have you leave, Jeanne. It is a great deal nicer with you here. Dad likes it too, I know, for he said to me yesterday: ‘Barbara,’ he always calls me Barbara when he is serious, ‘I like that little lady. You would please me if you would model your manners after hers. You are a bit hoydenish in your ways, and it grieves me. Fine manners are to a girl as the perfume is to a flower.’ I said, copy-book style: ‘Honored and respected parent, after having brought me up according to military regulations, don’t you think it is a little unjust to twit me with my manners? If they are lacking, blame the code, not me.’ And then I saluted, and retired, gracefully, I hope. At any rate the shot told for I heard him laughing as I went out. Now, Miss Vance, let me have a lesson. I suppose it’s proper to begin with prunes and prisms. There! do I say that right?”
“Oh, Bob,” cried Jeanne laughing as Bob perked up her mouth in a funny little grimace. “What a girl you are!”
“I hope you are well,” went on Bob with a fine affectation of young ladyism. “Beautiful weather we’re having, aren’t we? There! Do you think dad will like that?”
“I like you better your own natural self, and I think that he does too,” said Jeanne. “My ways don’t suit you, Bob, and yours would not suit me. But I am sure that you could have a fine manner without modeling after me. I like you best just as you are.”
“So do I,” said Bob, tucking her arm comfortably within Jeanne’s. “And so does dad but he doesn’t know it. I don’t want him to get too fond of you.”
Night came and as usual the soldiers gathered around the fires to sing songs and to tell stories. Presently Bob came among them to fulfill her promise to sing to them. Jeanne accompanied her, and the Northern girl wondered at the self-possession and ease with which the Colonel’s daughter stood before so many men and sang. But the Southern girl was so accustomed to the soldiers that she thought nothing of it. Song after song she sang responding with the utmost good nature to the repeated requests for more. At last she cried:
“Just one more, boys, and I must stop, for I am tired. What shall it be?”
“The Bonnie Blue Flag,” cried several voices.
“Very well,” and Bob began instantly: