When Emmeline returned, her mother told her to put the pail under the tree at the edge of the pavement; as she stood there waiting, with her mother's hand on her shoulder, her eyes flamed and her heart fumed. But no soldier stopped to drink. "Go offer them water, Emmeline." "Mother!" protested Emmeline again. Emmeline went and filled the dipper and stood holding it out; but no soldier left the line, although the lips of many were almost black. Some looked in Emmeline's direction, some passed grimly without a glance. "They will not drink it, mother!" cried Emmeline. "You don't end our lives that way, sissy!" jeered a passing voice. Emmeline dropped the dipper and fled back to her mother's side. Her mother had covered her face with her hands and stood shivering. Emmeline, watching her, was for the moment awed. For the first time something of the heavy horror of war penetrated her young heart. "We are not really going to have a battle, mother!" Mrs. Willing shook her head. "They have come for money and supplies." "Will they get them?" "Not here, dear. We haven't them." "Where will they get them?" "At York, perhaps," her mother replied. "May I go down to the square now, mother?" With the passing of the soldiers, the feeling of horror had passed also. Emmeline felt secure here in her own quiet village. "Why, no, of course not!" In Mrs. Willing's eyes was still that anxious, strained expression. "Where is your baby? Take him to his mother and come right back." With a heavy heart Emmeline went to obey. She said to herself that she never could see anything; she remembered all the pleasures that had been denied her in her short life,--the political meetings and funerals she had been forbidden to attend, the parties for which she was thought too youthful,--and she felt sadly aggrieved. There was nothing to do in this dreary town. Even picnics had ceased, and home itself, devoted to the care of Sister Bertha, was home no more. The afternoon passed, and Emmeline was sadly aware of the stir down the street. Presently, after burning a few cars on a siding, the troops went on their way. Saturday brought no excitement to brighten Emmeline's dull lot. On Sunday, when a body of Union soldiers rode through the town, Emmeline was, alas! in church. Once or twice troopers galloped through the streets, and people whispered that soldiers were riding about the fields with maps. Gettysburg was once more alert and frightened.