e Square. On the State
House the Stars and Bars still floated; but the travelers did not
pause. Northward they turned, then westward again, till they stopped at
last before a silent, stately mansion, the headquarters of their
General--General Lee.

Before the open door two sentries stood, but as Cary and his charge
dismounted an orderly came down the steps and out of the iron gate. A
word or two from Cary and the orderly disappeared into the house,
returning soon with word that the visitors would be received--at once.

Up the stone steps went Virgie, holding tightly to her father's hand,
for now, as she neared her General, her little heart was pounding, and
her breath came eagerly and fast.

On the threshold of a dim and shaded room they paused and looked. He sat
there, at a table strewn with war maps and reports--a tall gray man in a
coat of gray--the soldier and the gentleman.

As father and child came in he rose to meet them, looking at the two
with eyes that seemed to hold the sadness and the tenderness of all the
world.

He knew their story; in fact, he had bent his every effort to the
saving of Cary's life. He had sent a courier to the camp of General
Grant below the city, asking a stay of sentence till the facts in the
case were cleared; and only a half hour before his courier had returned
with news of the prisoner's release.

And now, as he advanced and gave a courtly welcome to his trusted scout,
the hand of the Littlest Rebel once more went up in salute to a superior
officer.

"Gen'ral," she said, as she stole a glance at her father's smiling face,
"I've brought him back--with--with the pass you gave me, sir."

And the General stooped--six feet of him--till his lips were on a level
with Virgie's lips; then folded her closely into his great gray arms.

THE END

PEACE

Hushed is the rolling drum. The bugle's note
Breathes but an echo of its martial blast;
The proud old flags, in mourning silence, float
Above the heroes of a buried past.
Frail ivy vines 'round rusting cannon creep;
The tattered pennants droop against the wall;
The war-worn warriors are sunk in sleep,
Beyond a summons of the trumpet's call.

Do ye still dream, ye voiceless, slumbering ones,
Of glories gained through struggles fierce and long,
Lulled by the muffled boom of ghostly guns
That weave the music of a battle-song?
In fitful flight do misty visions reel,
While rest