The tall man with the kindly face crossed the dooryard and approached Emmeline. "Well, sissy," he drawled, "and who may you be?" A variety of emotions almost suffocated Emmeline. Uppermost was hatred of that particular form of address. "I am Emmeline Willing," said she, with dignity. Men left their piles of sticks and crowded to the fence; others, who were going on errands, made a détour in order to come a little nearer to the group. "And who," drawled the tall man, "who may Emmyline Willing be?" Emmeline saw the thickening crowd and remembered the dull roar that had ceased only a little while ago. She grew pale, but she answered bravely:-- "I am the granddaughter of the owner of this place." "So-o-o! And where may the owner of this place be?" "He has gone away." Emmeline's courage was failing. She felt the cooler air of evening and saw the shadows lengthening as the sun sank behind the woodland. "My grandfather would not wish you to be here. You ought to go away." "Now, sissy," drawled the tall man, in a distressed voice, "don't cry!" "I am not crying," protested Emmeline, in spite of good evidence to the contrary. "I want you to go away!" "Well, sissy,"--the tall man seemed actually to be considering Emmeline's command,--"we couldn't very well do that." "You will have to!" cried Emmeline. "Our soldiers are here by the million! They will make you go!" The tall man made no answer to Emmeline's assertion. "You come here to the porch, sissy. Nobody's going to hurt a leetle gal." "I am going home," announced Emmeline. "I am going home to my mother. The battle is over." In spite of her brave words, Emmeline moved a little nearer to the porch. "Isn't the battle over?" she said. "Not exactly," said the tall soldier. As he mounted the porch, the others moved away. Busy men could not stand forever looking at a little girl in a striped dress. The tall soldier laid his hand on the latch. "Sissy, do you know any way to get this door open short of breaking it in?" "You can't get in!" cried Emmeline. "It isn't your house! You--" "Look here," interrupted a rough voice, "get this door open! Stop your crying and keep out of the way!" The new comer set his shoulder against the door. The old latch held for an instant, and then, as the soldier gave another sharper thrust, the hasp tore from the wood. Emmeline grew still paler. From the porch she could see farther over the country; on hills and fields men were still marching, horses were still being led or driven, cannon and caissons were rumbling along. The soldier who had burst open the door was now in Grandmother Willing's kitchen. He threw wide the shutters, and rattled the lids of the stove, and opened the doors of the cupboard. Once more little Emmeline protested furiously:-- "You can't touch those things!" The soldier lifted a handful of kindling from the box by the stove, and heaping it into the fire box, lighted it. "Can you bake?" he demanded rudely.