Tears rushed into the girl’s eyes and a sob broke from her lips. “Do they miss me, I wonder?” she said brokenly. “Oh, mother, mother! How little do you think that I am wandering about in the woods without a place to lay my head. Mother, mother!”

Jeanne looked up as the singer came toward her. The bright moonlight fell full upon him as he paused for a moment to examine the lock of his gun, and she saw that he was a Confederate soldier on picket duty. He resumed the song as he swung the gun back to his shoulder.

“He is like Dick,” thought the lonely girl. “I am sure that he has a kind heart, or he would not sing that song. Maybe he has a sister too.”

Summoning all her courage she spoke timidly. “Sir,” she said.

“Who goes there?” cried the startled picket with an ominous click of his weapon.

“Just a little girl,” answered Jeanne, coming forward into the moonlight. “I’m lost, and I don’t know where to go.”

“A girl! It’s true I do declare!” burst from the sentinel’s lips as he lowered his gun. “How do you come to be here in the woods at this time of night?”

“I am trying to get back to New Orleans, and I must have taken the wrong road.” Jeanne was trembling but she tried to control herself. “Oh, could you tell me where I could get something to eat and a place to sleep? I–I am afraid.”

Her voice broke and despite her efforts at self-command she burst into tears.

“There! Never mind! I’ll take you to Miss Bob,” said the soldier with rough kindness. “The woods ain’t no place fur a girl at night. Just come with me.”

Jeanne followed him gladly. A brisk walk of fifteen minutes brought them to a camp. The tents gleamed white among the trees and it seemed to the girl as though she had never seen so many in all her life before. Some men lounged lazily about one of the many fires that dotted the place, talking in subdued tones. They stared at the girl as the sentinel came in with her but made no remark. The soldier paused before a small tent and called softly:

“Miss Bob! Miss Bob! are you asleep?”

“What is it, Johnson?” came the reply in the soft sleepy tones of a girl.

“Here is a girl out here who is lost. She is hungry and wants a place to sleep. Will you see to her? I am on duty.”

“Certainly. Go back to your post, Johnson. I will be out in a minute.”

“All right.” The soldier saluted and walked off leaving Jeanne a prey to conflicting emotions.

In a few moments the flap of the tent was pushed aside, and the slight figure of a girl about Jeanne’s own age emerged from it.

“You are lost?” she asked advancing toward Jeanne and speaking quickly. “And hungry, I think Johnson said. Come, we’ll have something to eat, and then go to bed. Are you tired?”

Jeanne nodded, unable to speak.

“Sit here by the fire while I fix things. Jim,” to one of the men, “this girl is hungry. Will you help me get something for her to eat?”

“’Course I will, Miss Bob.” The man sprang to his feet and walked briskly away disappearing into what Jeanne afterward learned was the commissary department.

“We’ll have something in a jiffy,” remarked the girl encouragingly, beginning to poke up the fire.

“See here, Miss Bob, let me do that,” and another of the men ran to her side. “I reckon Jim and me can fix things. ’Tain’t no work for you.”

Soon cold chicken, bread, and hot coffee were placed before the hungry girl and she ate ravenously.

“I didn’t know that soldiers had chickens to eat,” she remarked with a sigh of satisfaction as she finished the last morsel.

The girl called Bob laughed merrily, the men joining in heartily.

“We don’t usually,” and Bob controlled her risibles with difficulty, “but you see a whole heap of them walked right into camp, and so of course we ate them.”

“Wasn’t it queer that they should come right into camp?” said serious Jeanne. “I always thought that you had to run after them to catch them.”

Again the girl and the men laughed.

“Of course they didn’t exactly come here,” said Bob comfortably, “but we’ve got the smartest regiment in the whole Confederate army. I verily believe that it could catch and skin a hog without a man leaving the ranks. Oh, they are fine foragers!”

“Forager?” Jeanne looked mystified. “I wonder if Dick is a forager!”

“Who is Dick?”

“Dick is my brother in the army,” said Jeanne proudly.

“Well, if he is a soldier you can depend upon it that he is a forager,” said Bob with decision. “Which side is your brother on?”

“The Union.”

The smile died away from the girl’s lips at the reply, and she looked at Jeanne with coldness.

“I did not think that you were a Southerner when you spoke,” she said. “What are you doing here? We are Confederates.”

“Yes, I know,” answered Jeanne. “My aunt and uncle left me on a deserted plantation because I was a Yankee, and I started back to New Orleans hoping that General Butler would send me home. I must have taken the wrong road, and so gotten lost. You won’t turn me away, will you, just because I am a Yankee?”

“No; not for to-night anyway. I just hate Yankees, but I reckon you don’t count as you are a girl. Come on to bed now, and we’ll talk it over in the morning.”

And Jeanne went into the tent content to let the morrow take care of itself now that she was sheltered for the night.

CHAPTER XIX
“BOB”

“I think I should like to,” replied Jeanne gazing at the trim figure of the girl admiringly. She was clad in a suit of gray cloth consisting of a skirt and close fitting jacket with epaulets upon the shoulders. A cap of the same material was perched jauntily upon her raven black hair. Her face, piquant and sparkling, was tanned a healthy brown through which the red of her cheeks glowed brightly. Jeanne thought that she had never seen a more charming girl, and, rebel though she knew she was, she felt her heart drawn toward her.

“Yes, I think that I should like to tell you,” she repeated, and then as rapidly as possible she told of her mission and the events that had followed its execution.

Bob listened attentively.

“It was awfully mean in your aunt to treat you the way she did,” she commented as Jeanne finished her story. “You are a brave girl even if you are a Yankee, and I like you. Father says there are some nice ones, but I reckon that they haven’t so awfully many brave ones among them, or we wouldn’t be whipping them so.”

“Whipping them?” cried Jeanne aghast. “What do you mean by whipping them? We were doing all the whipping the last I knew anything about it.”

“Well, you certainly haven’t heard the news lately then,” rejoined Bob. “If you had, you would have learned that General Bragg had invaded Tennessee and Kentucky and that the Confederates have both those states back again. I tell you the Yankees are just ‘skedaddling’ before him.”

“It can’t be true,” wailed Jeanne. “Kentucky and Tennessee both taken from us when we fought so hard to get them? Surely it is not true!”

“But it is,” asserted Bob positively. “And that is not the greatest news: General Lee has not only driven McClellan from in front of Richmond, but he has invaded Maryland and we expect to hear at any time that Washington has fallen into our hands.”

“Is it true?” asked Jeanne again turning so pale that Bob thought she was going to faint.

“Here, drink this!” Bob tipped up her canteen of water to Jeanne’s lips. “I did not know that Yankees cared so much for such things.”

“Cared for such things,” echoed Jeanne indignantly. “Of course we care. How could any one hear that the Capital is menaced and not care? But the traitors will never succeed in taking it. Never! I know our people. They will defend it with their lives, and drive the treacherous miscreants, who would dare profane by their touch, back to where they belong.”

“We are not traitors,” flashed Bob. “We have a right to secede if we want to. The Capital belongs as much to us as it does to you, anyway.”

“It doesn’t,” cried Jeanne angrily. “It belongs to the North because the North is trying to uphold the Government left to us by our great and good Washington.”

“Your great and good Washington,” sneered Bob. “Washington belonged to us, I’d have you know. He was a Virginian, and let me tell you, that if it hadn’t been for Southerners there never would have been any United States anyway.”

“There would too,” flashed back Jeanne. “My great-grandfather fought in the Revolution, and there were plenty who fought that were not Southerners.”

“And who led them, pray?” demanded Bob. “Why, George Washington, a Southerner. Who wrote the Declaration of Independence? Thomas Jefferson, a Southerner. Who got up the Constitution? Why James Madison, a Southerner. And mind you, Jeanne Vance, this country couldn’t be run at first except by Southerners. Out of the first five presidents, four were Southerners.”

“Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe,” and Jeanne counted them on her fingers. “John Adams was a Massachusetts man.”

“Phew!” and Bob’s lips curled scornfully. “And the people were so sick of him that they only let him stay in four years. They were glad enough to get back to us. I am sure that I don’t wonder. I don’t see how they could stand a New Englander.”

“I’m afraid that you’ll have to,” said Jeanne, wrathfully. “They are the best people in the world. One of them is worth a dozen Southerners.”

“He isn’t,” blazed Bob. “He––”

“Why, what does this mean?” cried a voice from without the tent. “Bob, is that the way you treat a guest? I am surprised.”

“It’s dad!” exclaimed Bob, rapidly untying the flap of the tent. “Come in.”

To Jeanne’s surprise she saluted her father military fashion instead of kissing him. The gentleman entered–a tall, black-haired, black-eyed man of splendid military bearing and courtly mien. His eyes were twinkling, but he spoke to his daughter in rather a stern tone.

“Is this the way to entertain a guest, my child? I suppose that this is the young lady that Johnson brought in last night.”

“Yes,” answered Bob, in a shamefaced way. “She is a Yankee, and we were quarreling. I don’t know how it began. Do you?” to Jeanne.

“No,” answered Jeanne. “I don’t.”

“I am ashamed of myself,” said Bob, impulsively. “I ought to have remembered that you were my guest. If you will forgive me this time I won’t do it any more.”

“I was wrong too,” said Jeanne, humbly. “We’ll forgive each other.”

Bob hesitated a moment and then leaned toward her.

“There!” said the Colonel, as the girls kissed. “That’s better. Leave it to the men to settle the differences of the country. It is not pleasant to see girls quarrel. Introduce the little lady to me, Bob.”

“Jeanne, this is my father, Colonel Peyton,” said Bob. “Dad, this is Jeanne Vance, from New York city. And she is a brave girl, if she is a Yankee. You must get her to tell you all about her adventures.”

“I am sure that I shall be pleased to hear them,” said the Colonel, affecting not to notice Jeanne’s start of surprise as she heard his name. “Do you girls know that it is breakfast time?”

“Mercy!” cried Bob. “Have the drums beaten the call? I did not hear them. Did you ever! We’ve been two hours talking and–quarreling,” she added, in a lower tone.

“Yes; there was a time when I thought that it would be coffee and pistols for two,” laughed the father. “Come, let us have breakfast. I will hear the little lady’s story while we eat.”

Jeanne looked about her with curious eyes as they emerged from the tent. Everywhere there were tents that were arranged with military precision back of a parade-ground which formed the front. First were the tents of the men arranged by companies. Next after the tents of the men came those of the commissioned officers of the companies. These faced on streets which ran at right angles with the company streets. Still back of these were the tents of the Colonel and his staff. The flag-staff at the edge of the parade-ground, and immediately in front of the Colonel’s tent, sported a Confederate flag that waved gaily in the breeze. In the rear of all were found the Quartermaster’s and Sutler’s departments. Dick had often written about the soldiers doing their own cooking but here the camp seemed filled with negroes who bustled about cooking and waiting upon the soldiers as if they had been in their own dining-rooms.

“We are here awaiting orders,” said the Colonel, when Jeanne had told him her story, “but we expect to leave soon for Jackson. There are a number of Federals in that vicinity. It seems to me that your best plan would be to remain with us until we reach Jackson where I will try to get you to your own side. They will assist you to get home. That is where you ought to be.”

“And where I wish to be,” said Jeanne. “You are very kind, Colonel Peyton. Kinder than my own people were, and yet you know that I am a Yankee.”

“I am treating you as I would wish my own daughter treated under like circumstances,” replied the Colonel gravely. “I don’t war on girls, and it seems to me that you have had rather a hard time of it. Well, we’ll get you out of it as soon as possible unless you and Bob destroy each other in your quarrels.” And he looked at them with a humorous twinkle in his eye.

“We won’t quarrel any more,” decided Bob. “We have had our say and we feel better. Don’t we, Jeanne?”

“Ye-es,” said Jeanne hesitatingly. “Only I didn’t say all I wanted to.”

“Never mind,” laughed Colonel Peyton. “I’ve no doubt but that you will have the opportunity yet. Did Bob tell you how she came to be with me?”

“No; how was it?”

“I ran away,” said Bob, her mouth full of chicken. “I have no mother. Nobody but dad. So when the war broke out, and he went into it I made up my mind that I would go too. Dad sold off our darkies and sent me to stay with Aunt Betty in Mobile. I stood it just as long as I could, then I took Jack, my horse, and struck out for dad. I found him finally, and now I’ve been with him for six months. And I am going to stay too. Am I not, dad?”

“Until we get to Jackson,” answered her father, regarding her fondly. “Then I shall send you on to Vicksburg to stay with sister Sally. That is the safest place in the Confederacy. Once there my mind will be easy about you. A camp is no place for a girl.”

The breakfast was finished and Colonel Peyton was about to leave them when he turned to Bob abruptly.

“By the way,” he said, “wasn’t it Mr. Vance who bought Snowball?”

“Yes; it was, dad. I wonder how Madame treats her! It seems to me that I’ve heard some awful stories about the way she uses her darkies.”

“When she whips them she does whip dreadfully,” said Jeanne. “But I only know of once that she had Snowball whipped. And you are the Colonel Peyton who bought her?” Then she told them of Tenny, Snowball’s mother.

“That was why you started when you heard my name, was it not?” asked the Colonel.

“Yes, sir.”

“I wondered just a little at the cause of it,” remarked the officer as he left them. “Now, girls, be good.”

“I don’t want to go to Vicksburg a bit,” confided Bob to Jeanne as they reëntered the former’s tent. “I just love soldiering. Besides I want to be near dad. Suppose he should be wounded. He’d die if I was not right there to look after him. I’m not going to say anything, but it will take a regular guard to keep me with Aunt Sally.”

“But if he wishes it,” said Jeanne to whom her father’s lightest wish was law. “You will have to stay then. He knows best.”

“It won’t be best for me to be away from him,” said Bob, rebelliously. “I should imagine all sorts of things were happening to him.”

“Everybody who has a father or a brother in the army does that,” said Jeanne sadly as she thought of Dick. “But we have to stand it, Bob, when the men and the boys will go to the war. I could not if I didn’t think it was right. If Dick should be killed––” her voice faltered a little–“it would be a noble death. Admiral Farragut said that there was no nobler one than to die for one’s country, and I should try not to grieve too much if he were to fall doing his duty.”

“I do wish you were a Southerner,” said Bob impulsively. “You feel just like we do about those things. But, Jeanne, what if your brother had thought that we were right and had gone to our side? What would you do then?”

“Dick couldn’t do that,” cried Jeanne. “Why the place where he was born and the way he was brought up would be against it. No; Dick couldn’t be a rebel.”

“That’s what I thought about Frank,” said Bob, with bitterness. “That’s one reason that I stick so close to dad. I have, or rather had, a brother too, Jeanne. But he broke dad’s heart and mine by going to fight with the Yankees. Yet his place of birth and his raising were both against it. I will never forgive him,” and the tears rolled down her cheeks. “And dad never will either.”

“But he is your brother,” said Jeanne, pressing her hand. “If he thinks he is right, even if he does differ with you, he is still your brother.”

“Never,” cried Bob, dashing the tears from her eyes. “I have no brother. Come, let’s go to see the men drill.”

CHAPTER XX
THE ARREST OF A SPY

“Well, it can’t beat the ‘Die No Mores,’” said Bob. “The boys have been specially good this week. Dad said last night that not a man had been under arrest for five days. I always sing to them when that happens.”

“Do you sing, Bob?”

“Yes; I have quite a good voice,” said Bob in such a matter-of-fact way that the other girl smiled. “Do you?”

“A little,” acknowledged Jeanne. “Father used to like to hear me.”

“Then we will give the boys a good time to-night. They like singing and dad thinks it helps to keep them cheerful. They often sing themselves.”

“I have heard them in the evening, and I like it when they do not sing rebel songs,” said honest Jeanne.

“Well, you can hardly expect them to sing any other, can you?” demanded Bob. “I don’t suppose that you do like it. I shouldn’t want to hear the Federal songs if I were in one of their camps. But the spirits of the men must be kept up for we expect to meet the enemy soon.”

“Do you?” cried Jeanne. “Oh, Bob, do you think that I could go to my side?”

“I don’t know, Jeanne. Dad said, you know, that it would be best to go to Jackson with us and then he would send you to the Federals. You wouldn’t be any nearer getting home with a party of skirmishers than you are with us.”

“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:

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

“Three cheers for the bonnie Blue Flag,” called a voice and with a shout the soldiers responded.

“Now three for our beloved president, Jefferson Davis! And three for the Confederacy!” The men responded lustily.

“And three cheers and a tiger for Miss Bob, the child of the regiment,” shouted another enthusiastically.

These had scarcely died away when some one called. “Why can’t the ‘Little Yank’ give us a song?”

“Yes, yes; the ‘Little Yank,’” came from all sides.

For a moment Jeanne hesitated, and then she stepped forward into the place which Bob had vacated. Her heart beat fast as she looked into the expectant faces before her.

“I will sing of a flag too,” she said in clear thrilling tones. With a quick motion she drew the stars and stripes from her bosom and shaking out its folds began earnestly:

For a few moments every one was still amazed at the girl’s audacity, but as the last strain of the first stanza came from her lips a hoarse, angry murmur went up from the soldiers, and there was a movement toward her. But Jeanne heeded it not and in triumphant tones began the chorus:

“Chuck that!” growled one of the men.

“Stow it, or it will be the worst for you,” called another.

“You asked me to sing,” said the girl undauntedly. “And I will choose my own song.”

“She is right,” and Colonel Peyton pushed his way to her side. “You asked her, boys, and she can sing what she chooses. Take your medicine like men.”

Sullenly the soldiers settled back into their places while Jeanne courageously finished her song.

“It wasn’t right,” said Bob angrily as Jeanne joined her. “You didn’t treat the boys right. If dad hadn’t been there they wouldn’t have stood it.”

“If they don’t want to hear such things they must not ask me to sing,” cried Jeanne, her eyes blazing. “I am compelled to hear treason every day.”

“You don’t need to stay here,” flashed Bob.

“I am sure that I don’t want to,” answered Jeanne. “I want to go to my own people and I will go to-morrow if your father will let me. I don’t stay because I want to.”

“Well, you needn’t be so glad to be rid of us,” and the tears welled up into Bob’s eyes. “I am sure that we are good to you.”

“Yes; you are,” and Jeanne went to her quickly. “I shall be sorry to leave you, Bob, but I do want to see my father and my mother. It has been so long, so long.” She turned away to hide her tears.

“Yes, it has;” and Bob put her arm within Jeanne’s affectionately. “I am sure that I don’t blame you for wanting to see them. I don’t know why I say such mean things, Jeanne. I wish we didn’t quarrel.”

“Maybe we can’t help it,” answered Jeanne, pressing her arm.

“No; I suppose you can’t help being a Yankee,” said Bob, so dolefully that Jeanne laughed.

“I don’t want to,” she said. “I am not sorry that you are a Southerner, but I wish you were for the Union.”

“Well, I don’t, and so there we are! I suppose that there is just one thing to do,” and Bob nodded her head sagely, “and that is not to quarrel any more than we can help. When we do we’ll make up, won’t we?”

“Yes,” answered Jeanne. “We will.”

Once more the two were friends, and thus the days passed. October waned and soon rested with the other months of the dying year, and chill November reigned supreme. Still the order to move did not come. There was an uneasiness in the Colonel’s manner as his scouts brought in news each day that the country surrounding Jackson was filling up with Federals.

One morning a number of the companies of the regiment left the camp, and Bob confided to Jeanne the news that they expected to be in an engagement before they returned.

Jeanne, thrilled by the intelligence that she was so near to her own people, sat thoughtfully in front of the tent devoted to the use of the girls.

“Would it not be possible,” she wondered, “for me to join them? These people are kind and good, but would it not be much better for me to be with those of my own side? If I were with them they could send me to some place where it would be safe for me to take the cars for home. Father and mother must be so worried. I will see Colonel Peyton and ask him what he thinks of it,” she cried, springing to her feet.

She hastened toward the tent of the commander, reaching it at the same time as a number of soldiers did. A man was in their midst who, although he wore a suit of butternut, seemed to be a prisoner. Jeanne paused as the men stopped directly in front of her, and gave a cry of amazement at sight of the man.

“You,” she cried, in agitated tones. “Oh, I thought that you were on our side!”

A loud burst of laughter came from the soldiers, and the prisoner became very pale.

“I reckon the ‘Little Yank’ has called your death sentence, pardner,” said one of the Confederates, roughly. “That shows that you are a spy all right enough.”

“A spy,” cried Jeanne, a light flooding her mind. “Oh, what have I done? What have I done?”

“Do not grieve,” said the young man, who was none other than the officer whom she had aided in Memphis. “They strongly suspected it any way, and were taking me to their Commanding officer for examination.”

“There doesn’t need to be much examination,” said a Confederate, bluntly. “Colonel Peyton will make short work of you.”

“Whom did you say?” cried the young man in such agonized tones that all turned to look at him.

“Colonel Peyton,” was the reply. “Here he is now.”

“What does this mean, boys?” asked Colonel Peyton, appearing in the door of his tent. “What is the disturbance?”

“A feller that we caught sneaking round the camp,” answered the leader, gruffly. “He claims to be a Southerner, and I reckon he is one all right, but his actions are decidedly suspicious. We were bringing him to you when this girl recognized him, and called the turn on him as belonging to the Federals.”

“He is that worst of men, a Southerner who has turned against the State that gave him birth and who takes up arms against her,” said the Colonel sternly, yet with emotion. “I know him, men, personally. He is an officer in the Federal army. If he was prowling about here in those clothes he is without doubt a spy. Unhappy man,” he continued, turning to the prisoner, “what have you to say for yourself?”

“Nothing,” and the young fellow bowed his head upon his breast.

“You know the penalty of being caught as a spy,” went on the pitiless voice of the Colonel. “A spy is one of the most dishonorable of men, and deserves any death given him. We have not much time for such. You die at sunrise. Take him, men, and guard him well. I believe him to be a dangerous man.”

He turned back into his tent, and the soldiers started away with him, when Jeanne darted to the young man’s side, and caught his hand between her own.

“Forgive me,” she sobbed. “I did not know what I was doing. Forgive me.”

“Never mind, child,” said the young officer, drearily. “It would have happened any way. He knew me. I would rather have died in battle, but after all I have been doing my duty. It is not death I fear, but––”

“But what?” asked Jeanne, as he paused.

“It breaks my heart to be condemned to death by my own father,” came the agonized reply.

CHAPTER XXI
A SURPRISE AND AN ESCAPE

“Bob! Is Bob here?” The Lieutenant looked up eagerly and then shook his head. “No,” he said, “she must not know. It would break her heart. After all what has he done but what is just? Had it been any other Federal we would commend him for doing his duty. He could not do other than he has done. But say nothing to Bob. Add this to your other kindness, Miss Jeanne. And, as this will probably be the last opportunity I shall ever have, let me thank you also for sending me to your home.”

“Then you really went there,” cried Jeanne. “You saw my father and my mother? How did they look? Were they well? When did you leave them? Oh, Lieutenant Peyton, do tell me all about them.”

“They are all well, or were when I left them which was two months ago. They were as kind to me as if I had been their own son. I shall never forget them. But they were worried because they had not heard from you. After you left Memphis no word came to them. Child, why do you treat such parents so? Why are you here in place of being at home? It is wrong to subject them to so much uneasiness. They cannot think what has happened to you?”

“But I have written,” cried Jeanne, tearfully. “And I want to get home. I don’t want to stay here one bit. I want––”

“Men, why do you dally here with your prisoner?” came in stern tones from Colonel Peyton who had approached the group unobserved. “I desire that no further communication be allowed between this man and that girl. Are they not both Federals?”

“Being as he was your son, Colonel,” said the leader, saluting, “we thought––”

“Your business is to obey orders, not to think,” interrupted the officer brusquely. “He is no son of mine. My son died to me long ago.”

“Dad,” cried the cheery voice of Bob as she came toward him. “They say that you have caught a spy. Where is he? Why––” Her gaze fell upon the prisoner and she stopped short. “Frank,” she cried, shrilly, “it’s Frank! Oh, dad, what does it mean?”

“It means,” said the Colonel, trying to draw her away, “that you have no brother, Bob. This man is nothing to you. He is a spy and as such dies at sunrise.”

“At sunrise!” shrieked Bob. “No, no!”

“Away with that fellow,” ordered the Colonel, harshly. “And mind! I shall hold each one of you personally responsible for his safety. Bob,” as the soldiers bore his son away, “you are under arrest. Go to your quarters and stay there until I release you. And you also,” to Jeanne.

“You have no right to arrest me, Colonel Peyton,” said Jeanne coldly. “I refuse to obey any man who sentences his own son to death.”

“You refuse to obey me?” cried the Colonel, loth to believe his ears. “Me?”

“Yes, sir, you. I do not consider myself under arrest. You have no right to put me there. I am neither your daughter nor your slave,” and Jeanne put her arm around Bob and faced him defiantly.

“There are ways of enforcing obedience, young lady,” said the Colonel. “Bob, to your quarters.”

“But, dad,––”

“To your quarters,” commanded her father sternly. “Johnson,” to a soldier, “see that these girls are well-guarded until I give other orders.”

And so it came about that a guard was placed about their tent and the girls found themselves as closely watched as if they were indeed prisoners. In the afternoon as they sat disconsolately together a confusion without told that something unusual was going on. Jeanne went to the aperture in the front of the tent and looked out.

“What is it?” she asked of the sentry.

“Our men coming back,” was the answer. “They have a number of prisoners and have captured some fine horses.”

Jeanne reported the news to Bob, but she received it apathetically. So overcome by grief was she that she appeared to no longer care for anything.

“Bob,” said Jeanne suddenly, “can’t we do something to help your brother?”

“I am afraid not,” answered Bob in heartbroken accents. “What can we do? We are only girls. What can we do?”

“Well, we can make an effort. I will never forgive myself if I don’t do something for him.”

“Why should you care?” asked Bob listlessly. “He is not your brother.”

“No, Bob, he isn’t. But he is one of our officers, and I intend to help him get away. It would be an awful thing for him to die by the hand of his father.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Bob looking at her with a gleam of interest.

“I don’t know. I have been thinking all day and I don’t know,” said Jeanne. “But we must do something. I did not think that your father could be so cruel.”

“He is doing his duty,” said Bob with pale lips. “Poor dad! Jeanne, you think him hard-hearted, but I know that this will kill him. Poor, poor dad!”

“Then if he cares why does he condemn his son to death?” asked Jeanne in surprise.

“Because he came here as a spy, and dad could not overlook that fact even if he is his son. Dad must regard Frank as a Federal, Jeanne. He is bound to as a Confederate officer.”

“But you are not bound. Surely you are not going to let your brother die without trying to save him?”

“Dad will never forgive me,” said Bob weakly. “And yet I can’t let Frank die.”

“Of course not,” answered Jeanne. “Now, Bob, let’s think hard. Maybe between us we can get some plan.”

But the time passed, and darkness found them still with no plan matured.

“We will save our rations,” said Bob as their supper was handed in to them. “Frank ought to have them to take with him if he succeeds in escaping. If he doesn’t we won’t care to eat.”

So they carefully put up the food into a small package, and again fell to discussing ways and means for the escape of Lieutenant Peyton.

“Bob,” exclaimed Jeanne presently, “do you know that I have not heard the guard patrol our tent for a long time?”

Bob listened intently, and then sprang to her feet.

“It’s true,” she exclaimed excitedly. “I wonder what the reason is?”

They ran to the door of the tent and peered out cautiously. There seemed to be a commotion of some kind in camp. Men were hurrying to and fro; bayonets rattled, and the subdued murmur of many voices plainly told that an unusual movement was on foot. The girls looked on breathlessly and presently they heard the order given for the men to fall in line. Then “Forward, March!” came the command and the ranks filed out of the camp on the double quick, the Colonel at their head.

“Something’s up,” said Bob with conviction. “Let’s go down to where the prisoners are, Jeanne, and see how the land lies. Then maybe we will know what to do.”

Silently Jeanne signified her assent and the two stole quietly through the long rows of tents to where the prisoners were.

“There is but one guard,” whispered Bob in delight. “See, Jeanne! Frank lies the closest to the fire. He is bound too, hand and foot.”

“I see,” whispered Jeanne. “Let’s get closer, Bob.”

Cautiously they approached nearer to the men. Presently Jeanne uttered an exclamation and stopped stock still.

“What is it?” asked Bob quickly. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“Bob,” whispered Jeanne in great agitation, “do you see that young fellow just beyond Frank? The one with the yellow hair, I mean.”

“Yes, Jeanne. Why?”

“That is my brother Dick. They shan’t have Dick, Bob. Not if I had to face the whole Confederate army myself.”

“Jeanne, is it truly Dick? Aren’t you mistaken? Maybe it’s only some one who looks like him.”

“It’s Dick,” said Jeanne positively. “Watch him. He will know my voice.” Regardless of caution she began singing softly the then popular melody: