The first Confederate prisoner that Ailsa ever saw was brought in on a stretcher, a quiet, elderly man in bloody gray uniform, wearing the stripes of a sergeant.

Prisoners came more often after that.  Ailsa, in her letters to Celia Craig, had mentioned the presence of Confederate wounded at the Farm Hospital; and, to her delight and amazement, one day late in February a Commission ambulance drove up, and out stepped Celia Craig; and the next instant they were locked tightly in each other’s arms,

“Darling—­darling!” sobbed Ailsa, clinging desperately to Celia, “it is heavenly of you to come.  I was so lonely, so tired and discouraged.  You won’t go away soon, will you?  I couldn’t bear it—­I want you so—­I need you——­”

“Hush, Honey-bud!  I reckon I’ll stay a while.  I’ve been a week with Curt’s regiment at Fortress Monroe.  I had my husband to myse’f fo’ days, befo’ they sent him to Acquia Creek.  And I’ve had my boy a whole week all to myse’f!  Then his regiment went away.  They wouldn’t tell me where.’  But God is kinder. . . .  You are certainly ve’y pale, Honey-bee!”

“I’m well, dearest—­really I am, I’ll stay well now.  Is Curt all right?  And Stephen?  And Paige and Marye?—­and Camilla?”

“Everybody is well, dear.  Curt is ve’y brown and thin—­the dear fellow!  And Steve is right handsome.  I’m just afraid some pretty minx—­” She laughed and added:  “But I won’t care if she’s a rebel minx.”

“Celia! . . .  And I—­I didn’t think you liked that word.”

“What word, Honey-bell?” very demurely.

“Rebel!”

“Why, I reckon George Washington wore that title without reproach.  It’s a ve’y good title—­rebel,” she added serenely.  “I admire it enough to wear it myse’f.”

Quarters were found for Mrs. Craig.  Letty shyly offered to move, but Celia wouldn’t have it.

“My dear child,” she said, “I’m just a useless encumbrance ’round the house; give me a corner where I may sit and look on and—­he’p everybody by not inte’fering.”

Her corner was an adjoining section of the garret, boarded up, wall-papered, and furnished for those who visited the Farm Hospital on tour of inspection or to see some sick friend or relative, or escort some haggard convalescent to the Northern home.

Celia had brought a whole trunkful of fresh gingham clothes and aprons, and Ailsa could not discover exactly why, until, on the day following her arrival, she found Celia sitting beside the cot of a wounded Louisiana Tiger, administering lemonade.

“Dearest,” whispered Ailsa that night, “it is very sweet of you to care for your own people here.  We make no distinction, however, between Union and Confederate sick; so, dear, you must be very careful not to express any—­sentiments.”

Celia laughed.  “I won’t express any sentiments, Honey-bee.  I reckon I’d be drummed out of the Yankee army.”  Then, graver:  “If I’m bitter—­I’ll keep it to myse’f.”