“Only a few days, marm.”
“Kin yer till me what all thet noise was about day ’fore yesterday?”
“Yes, marm; it was a big battle.”
“Gracious me! Yer don’t say so! Whar was it?”
“Down below Centreville.”
“Which beat?”
“The Confederates drove the Yankees off the field,” answered Tom, suspending business long enough to glance at the woman, and see how the intelligence was received.
“Yer don’t! Then they won’t want my old man.”
Tom was unable to determine whether his hostess was Union or “Secesh” from her words or her looks. He could not inform her whether they would want her old man or not. When he had eaten all he could, he proposed like an honest youth to pay for what he had eaten; but Betsey had the true idea of southern hospitality, and refused to receive money for the food eaten beneath her roof. She had a loaf of coarse bread, however, in which she permitted Tom to invest the sum of six cents.
“I am very much obliged to you, marm; and I shall be glad to do as much for you, any time,” said Tom, as he went towards the front door.