in a tangle half across her pinched and weary little face.

At a faint sigh of exhaustion from the child the man looked down,
gathered her up in his arms and perched her on his shoulder. Then he
plodded on again, a prey to weariness and hunger. The turning point in
Herbert Cary's life had come. Thanks to a generous enemy; Virgie and he
were now reasonably sure of food if once they could reach the
Confederate lines but as for himself, with the woman he had loved asleep
forever beneath the pines, the future could only be an unending, barren
stretch of gray.

Then, almost as quickly, recollection of his duty towards her whom he
carried in his arms came to him and he raged at himself for his moment
of selfish discouragement. Spurred on by the necessity of gaining a
point of safety for his child he began to calculate the distance yet to
be covered and their chances of gaining friendly lines before
encountering scouting parties of Federals. Behind him, a few miles south
on the other bank of the James at Light House Point Sheridan was in camp
with two brigades and Cary knew this fast riding, hard striking
cavalryman too well not to suspect that the country, even in front of
him, was alive with Union men. There was the pass which Morrison had
given him, of course, but the worth of a pass in war time often depends
more on him who receives it than on the signature.

But all those things, even food, would have to wait for a while because
he was consumed with thirst and must find water before he went another
mile forward.

A tired sigh from Virgie caught his ear and he stopped by a stone wall
and let her get down from his shoulder. The child stood up on the broad,