“New Market!” said Sairy. “All them children. I can’t get New Market out of my head.” “I’ve been down to Three Oaks for a day,” spoke Christianna. “Mrs. Cleave wouldn’t talk about New Market, but it seemed like Miss Miriam couldn’t keep away from it. Lexington—an’ the cadets marchin’ at dawn—marchin’ with their white flag with Washington on it—marchin’ so trim down the Valley Pike—” “Fawns fighting for the herd,” said Tom. “An’ General Breckinridge welcomin’ them—an’ some troops that wanted to make fun singin’, ‘_Rock-a-bye, baby, on the tree-top_’—an’ Sunday mornin’ comin’, an’ the battle—” “And that was a hard field,” said Tom, “to plough on a Sunday morning.” “Mrs. Cleave said that once before there was a Children’s Crusade an’ that no good came of it. She said that when the old began to kill the young Nature herself must be turning dizzy. An’ Miss Miriam read every paper an’ then lay there, lookin’ with her big, burnin’ eyes.” Sairy rose, went into the kitchen, and returned with a pan of apples which she began to pare. The sun was over the shoulder of Thunder Run Mountain and in its heat and light the flowers in the garden smelled strongly, the mountain-head lay in a shimmering haze, and a pool of gold touched Christianna’s shoe. It was late in May, the Wilderness and Spottsylvania over—Cold Harbour not yet—in Georgia the armies lying about New Hope Church. “Mother came up the mountain yesterday,” said Christianna. “I hope she’s well?” “Yes, ma’am, she’s real well. Mother’s awful strong. It’s one of the hospital’s half-empty times, so she’s come home for a week. She’s cuttin’ wood this mahnin’. It’s mighty good to have her home—she’s so cheerful.” “That’s where she shows her strong mind.” “Yes, ma’am. She says that when summer comes you don’t have smallpox, and when winter comes, typhoid eases off. Mrs. Cleave says the soldiers all like mother.” “Allan,” remarked Sairy,—“Allan always said Mrs. Maydew was an extraordinary woman. Talkin’ of Allan—” A lean, red-brown hand came over the gate to the latch. The yellow cat rose, stretched himself, and left the path. The hand opened the gate and Steve Dagg, entering, limped the thirty feet between gate and porch. “Mornin’, folks!” he said, with an ingratiatory grin. “Mornin’.” Steve sat down upon the step, carefully handling, as he did so, the treasure of his foot. “It’s awful hard to be lamed for life! But if you’re lamed in a good cause, I reckon that’s all you ought to ask!” Sairy eyed him with disfavour. “Land sake, Steve, the war ain’t goin’ to last that long!” “We were talking about New Market,” said Tom. “Since Monday there ain’t any news come from Richmond way.”