"Have they hurt you, Rosy, darlint?"
"Not them, Jim McGarvy. They have been civil spoke enough. It's you that's hurt me—you that have gone back on the wife of your bosom an' your own flesh an' blood."
"Whisht, Rosy, darlint, whisht." He got as close to her as circumstances would allow. "Them soldiers are our own boys, who are trying to make their way south, I've jis' had them do all that for a blind, jis' for a blind, the poor fellers. Sure, an' you know, Rosy, darlint, that Jim McGarvy is a spotted man, an' the very first one in these parts that the inimy would go for."
Wondrous the transformation.
"Is that thrue?" she cried, with beaming face, forgetting already the day's worry, "are they raly our own boys? Sure, an' it's a dolt I am, not to know what the tallest one meant when he whispered to me:
"When the South is free, I am for Jim McGarvy for any office he wants."
"Whisht, Rosy, darlint, birds of the air carry tidings; but come along now and get us a hot supper, and a good one too to stay our stomachs, for I've got to carry the boys further on their way to-night, the holy Mither of God bless 'em!"
Now I am going to tell you how Roberta kept her promise about taking care of the soldier boy's gun. Not many weeks after that memorable Fourth, Squire came home in great excitement, saying the soldiers were searching every house for contraband articles, and soon would be at theirs.
"I should be very sorry," said Mrs. Marsden, "to have to give up the suit of gray jeans I've made for Charlie and the dear boy's boots."
"You won't have to give them up, mamma," responded Roberta, who had lain awake night after night, planning what she should do in the event the soldiers came after them. Now what do you suppose she did? Pushed boots and clothes to the very bottom of the flour-barrel under the flour. Not even our own Yankee Bligh could have detected their whereabouts. Then she dressed the gun up in baby clothes, with long white robe and cloak and pretty baby cap; tied a veil over the cap. When she was through, it really looked very much like a baby. She gave the gun to Polly, and told her to walk up and down the porch with it and sing a lullaby. Polly didn't like counterfeit babies any more than she liked real babies.