Three short raps upon the window pane A flag of truce, honored alike by the Confederacy and the Union Young Stanchfield struggled to sit up “Dorothea met a Union officer in Coulter Woods” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ GIRLS OF ’64 CHAPTER I NEWS FROM THE NORTH Corinne twisted and turned before the mirror over the console table, flicked a speck of powder from her sacque and stood back to regard herself appreciatively. She felt her toilette to be extremely distinguished when war deprivations were taken into account. “I’m ready,” she drawled, addressing her cousin. “If we-all don’t want to be late we might as well start. It’s ’most train-time.” Harriot settled back in her chair and began to rock furiously. “I don’t think I’ll go to the dêpot to-day,” she said finally. Corinne looked at her indignantly. “What did you let me take all the trouble to powder my nose for then?” she demanded. “You know ma won’t let me go alone in that crowd, and there’s sure to be some news.” “Oh, bother the news!” Harriot murmured under her breath, unconsciously turning her head to look in the direction of the kitchen. “Harriot May!” cried Corinne disapprovingly, “you speak as if you didn’t care about the victories of our great Confederacy.” “But they aren’t always victories,” Harriot returned bluntly. “That’s the trouble. We’re just as apt to hear that the hateful Yankees have beaten us again and—and besides, I’d rather stay here, anyhow.” Once more she turned an eye toward the cooking-quarters and sniffed. “You’re not thinking of eating again?” Corinne demanded. “Yes, I am,” Harriot answered blandly. “Aunt Decent’s going to make corn meal poundcake and if we hang ’round the kitchen she’ll bake us each a little patty-pan.” “You’re such a child,” Corinne said, with the patronizing smile fifteen bestows upon twelve; but if she expected Harriot to resent her grown-up airs she must have been disappointed. The “child” suddenly jumped to her feet as a faint odor of baking drifted into the room. “Come on, Corinne!” she insisted, “Aunt Decent is taking the first pan out of the oven now. Besides, I’ll coax her to give us some cush to feed Saretta’s baby. She’s sure to be there after clabber.” Corinne followed, still protesting; but cakes were not so plentiful in the South during this, the second year of the war, that even a girl who preferred to think herself very much of a young lady could afford to scorn them. “Well, the train’s always late anyway,” she murmured indulgently, as if in excuse for letting her cousin have her own way.