the fugitive's hiding-place. Virgie watched him, trembling, growing hot
in the pit of her little stomach; yet, when he faced her, she looked him
squarely in the eye, fighting one last battle for her daddy--as hopeless
as the tottering cause of the Stars and Bars.

"You--you don't think he can fly, do you?"

"No, little Rebel," the soldier answered gently, sadly; "but there are
other ways." He glanced at the table, measuring its height with the
pitch of the ceiling, then turned to her again: "Is your father in that
loft?" She made no answer, but began to back away. "Tell me the truth.
Look at me!" Still no answer, and he took a step toward her, speaking
sternly: "Do you hear me? _Look_ at me!"

She tried; but her courage was oozing fast. She had done her best, but
now it was more than the mite could stand; so she bit her lip to stop
its quivering, and turned her head away. For a moment the man stood,
silent, wondering if it was possible that the child had been coached in
a string of lies to trade upon his tenderness of heart; then he spoke,
in a voice of mingled pity and reproach:

"And so you told me a story. And all the rest--is a story, too. Oh,
Virgie! Virgie!"

"I didn't!" she cried, the big tears breaking, out at last. "I didn't
tell you stories'. Only jus' a _little_ one--for Daddy--an' Gen'ral
Lee."

She was sobbing now, and the man looked down upon her in genuine
compassion, his own eyes swimming at her childish grief, his soldier