back into his seat, closing his eyes and repeating slowly, sadly:

"He's well; God bless him! But he's tired, darling--mighty tired."

"Daddy," the soldier's daughter asked, "will you tell him
somethin'--from me?"

"Yes, dear. What?"

"Tell him," said the child, with a thoughtful glance at Miss Susan
Jemima across the table, "tell him, if he ever marches along this way,
I'll come over to his tent and rub his head, like I do yours--if he'll
let me--till he goes to sleep." She clasped her fingers and looked into
her father's eyes, hopefully, appealingly. "Do you think he would,
if--if I washed my hands--real clean?"

The Southerner bit his lip and tried to smile.

"Yes, honey, I know he would! And think! He sent a message--to _you_."

"Did he?" she asked, wide-eyed, flushed with happiness. "What did he
say, Daddy? What?"

"He said," her father answered, taking her hands in his: "'She's a brave
little soldier, to stay there all alone. Dixie and I are proud of her!'"

"Oh, Daddy, did he? Did he?"

"Yes, dear, yes," the soldier nodded; "his very words. And look!" From
his boot leg he took a folded paper and spread it on his knee. "He