red.

"I thought you Yankees had gone forever!" she exclaimed. "You'd better
hurry or Stonewall Jackson will get you before morning!"

"We're not Yankees, ma'am," said Harry, politely. "We're Southerners,
Stonewall Jackson's own men, scouts from his army, here looking for news
of the enemy."

"A fine tale, young man. You're trying to fool me with your gray
uniform. Stonewall Jackson's men are fifteen miles north of here,
chasing the Yankees by thousands into the Potomac. They say he does it
just as well by night as by day, and that he never sleeps or rests."

"What my comrade tells you is true. Good evening, Cousin Eliza!" said a
gentle voice beyond Harry.

The woman started and then stepped out of the door. Dalton rode forward
a little where the full moonlight fell upon him.

"You remember that summer six years ago when you spanked me for stealing
the big yellow apples in the orchard."

"George! Little George Dalton!" she cried, and as Dalton got off his
horse she enclosed him in a powerful embrace, although he was little no
longer.

"And have you come from Stonewall Jackson?" she asked breathless with
eagerness.

"Straight from him. I'm on his staff and so is my friend here. This is
Harry Kenton of Kentucky, Mrs. Pomeroy, and he's been through all
the battles with us. We were watching from the woods and we saw those
Yankees at your door. They didn't get any information, I know that, but
I'm thinking that we will."

Cousin Eliza Pomeroy laughed a low, deep laugh of pride and
satisfaction.

"Come into the house," she exclaimed. "I'm here with four children. Jim,
my husband, is with Johnston's army before Richmond, but we've been able
to take care of ourselves thus far, and I reckon we'll keep on being
able. I can get hot coffee and good corn cakes ready for you inside of
fifteen minutes."

"It's not food we want, Cousin Eliza," said Dalton. "We want something
far better, what those Yankees came for--news. So I think we'd better
stay outside and run no risk of surprise. The Yankees might come back."

"That's so. You'll grow up into a man with a heap of sense, George.
I've got real news, and I was waiting for a chance to send it through to
Stonewall Jackson. Billy! Billy!"

A small boy, not more than twelve, but clothed fully, darted from the
inside of the house. He was well set up for his age, and his face was
keen and eager.

"This is Billy Pomeroy, my oldest son," said Cousin Eliza Pomeroy, with
a