leaving a fiery, aching memory behind, as the man crashed down a clay
bank, to lie for an instant in a crumpled heap, to rise and stumble
on--not toward the haven of his own Confederate lines, but forward, to
where a baby waited--through a dancing mist of red.

And so the soldier made his poor apology, turning his head away to
avoid a dreaded look in Virgie's big, reproachful eyes; then he added
one more lashwelt to his shame:

"And now your poor old daddy is no more use to you. I come to my little
girl with empty hands--with an empty gun--and an empty heart!"

He said it bitterly, in the self-accusing sorrow of his soul; and his
courage, which had borne him through a hell of suffering, now broke; but
only when a helper of the helpless failed. He laid his outflung arms
across the table. He bowed his beaten head upon them and sobbed aloud,
with sobs that shook him to his heels.

It was then that Virgie came to him again, a little daughter of the
South, who, like a hundred thousand of her sisters, brought comfort in
the blackest hours.

One tiny, weak arm was slipped about his neck. One tiny brown hand, with
its berry-stained fingers, was run through his tangled hair, softly,
tenderly, even as she longed to soothe the weary head of General Lee.

"Don't cry, Daddy-man," she murmured in his ear; "it's all right. _I_
can eat the blackberries. They--they don't taste so _awful_ good when
you have 'em _all_ the time; but _I_ don't mind." She paused to kiss
him, then tried once more to buoy his hope and hers. "We'll have jus'