Kittykin was about five months old when there was a great marching of soldiers backward and forward; the tents in the field beyond the woods were taken down and carried away in wagons, and there was an immense stir. The army was said to be “moving.” There were rumors that the enemy was coming, and that there might be a battle near there. Evelyn was so young that she did not understand any more of it than Kittykin did; but her mother appeared so troubled that Evelyn knew it was very bad, and became frightened, though she did not know why. Her mammy soon gave her such a gloomy account, that Evelyn readily agreed with her that it was “like torment.” As for Kittykin, if she had been born in a battle, she could not have been more unconcerned. In a day or two it was known that the main body of the army was some little way off on a long ridge, and that the enemy had taken up its position on another hill not far distant, and Evelyn’s home was between them; but there was no battle. Each army began to intrench itself; and in a little while there was a long red bank stretched across the far edge of the great field behind the house, which Evelyn was told was “breastworks” for the picket line, and she pointed them out to Kittykin, who blinked and yawned as if she did not care the least bit if they were. Next morning a small squadron of cavalry came galloping by. A body of the enemy had been seen, and they were going to learn what it meant. In a little while they came back. “The enemy,” they said, “were advancing, and there would probably be a skirmish right there immediately.”