"Father, I must tell you. I cannot think as you do. This war is terrible, and I believe the South is all in the wrong." Mr. Chittenden could only gasp his astonishment, then he commenced laughing. "Is that all, Grace? I thought--well, it hardly matters what I thought. It was unworthy of me. But what makes you think the South is all wrong?" "I do not know as I can make you understand, but, father--I hate slavery! I think I was born with a love for freedom. I have drunk it in from my childhood. This valley, the grand old hills around it, all speak of freedom. La Belle murmurs it as her waters dance and sparkle on their way to the sea. The wind in the trees sings of freedom, the birds warble it." "Grace, you are poetic; it is only these fancies that make you think as you do." "No, father. You know I love history, and you have some good histories in your library. I have learned how slavery came into this country, how it grew; and I also know something about what is called State Rights. I believe the South claims any State has a perfect right to withdraw from the Union at pleasure." "Yes, the doctrine is true. We are no rebels." "I can't believe it. To trample on the flag of our common country is rebellion. Father, I love the starry flag. I carry it next my heart." To her father's surprise, she put her hand in her bosom and drew forth a tiny flag. "I made it, father, at school. While the other girls were making Confederate flags, I made this one." Mr. Chittenden could only say, "Thank God, you are not a boy." "Father, you do not hate me?" "No, child; I look at what you have said as only the foolish fancies of a girl. You will laugh at them yourself when you are older. But, Grace, let me ask you a question. According to your ideas I am a rebel. Does that make you love me less?" For answer she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. "No, father, for you are doing what you think right. If you were in the army, riding at the head of your regiment, I would be proud of you--pray for you." "Would to God that I could," cried Mr. Chittenden, "and, old as I am, I would if it were not for this infernal rupture. But, Grace, I can never forget that look you gave me when you thought I was one of the gang about to hang Osborne. If I had been, would you still love me?" His voice trembled as he asked the question. The girl shivered and was silent for a moment, then said: "When--when I thought you were, it was as if a dagger had pierced my heart. I believe I would have died then and there if I had not learned differently. It would have been my love for you that would have killed me. To think my father was a mur----" She did not finish the sentence. A look of anguish, of terror, came into the father's face. He trembled like a leaf--what if his daughter knew his past! "What is it, father?" cried Grace in alarm.