all I ever saw,’ With that she went over an’ tuk the girl in her arms, an’ sot her on the bench, sayin’, ‘You pore honey, you!  Whar’d you come from?’ At this the leetle one began to cry—­tried to speak, then started to cry again.  ‘Wa-all, never mind a-talkin’ about it now,’ says Mirandy, settin’ to quiet her, an’ pettin’ an’ soothin’ her in a way that I wouldn’t a-believed of Mirandy if I hadn’t a-seen it; for she hasn’t had much to tetch the soft spot in her heart sence our leetle Sallie died, which is nigh onto eight year ago.  ‘Come, Josh,’ she called ter me, ’jest you carry this hyere child inter the house an’ lay her on the bed.  I reckon she can have the leetle room, an’ you can sleep in the kitchen ternight.’—­’I’m agreeable,’ answers I; so I picked her up (she war as limp an’ docile as could be), an’ carried her in, an’ put her down on the bed.  That was three weeks come Sunday, an’ thar she’s been ever since.”

Our host had finished his story, yet how much remained untold!  All the care and kindness which the stranger had received at the hands of these good simple people was passed over in silence, as if not worth mentioning.

Josh rose and went to the fire to relight his brier-wood pipe, which had gone out during the recital.

“And is the little girl still very ill?” asked Father Friday, with gentle concern.

“Yes; an’ the trouble is, she gets wus an’ wus,” was the reply.  “The complaint’s taken a new turn lately.  She’s been in a ragin’ fever an’ kind of flighty most of the time.  Yer see, she’d had a sight of trouble afore she broke down, an’ that’s what’s drivin’ her distracted.  She’d lost her folks somewhar way down South,—­got separated from them in the hurly-burly of a flight from a captured town; an’, childlike, she set about travellin’ afoot all over the land to find them.  How she got through the lines I can’t make out, unless she got round ’em some way, comin’ through the woods.  Anyway she’s here, and likely never to get any farther in her search, pore honey!  But what’s her name, or who her people are, is more nor I can say; for, cur’ous as it seems, she has plum forgotten these two things.

“Thar’s another matter, too, that bothers us some.  She keeps a-callin’ for somebody, an’ beggin’ an’ prayin’ us not to let her die without somethin’, in a way that would melt the heart of a rock.  It makes me grow hot an’ then cold all in a minute, jest a-listenin’ to her.  To-day she war plum out of her head, an’ war goin’ to get right up an’ go off through the woods after it herself.  Mirandy had a terrible time with her; an’ it wasn’t till she got all wore out from sheer weakness that she quieted down an’ fell asleep, jest a leetle before yer ‘peared, strangers.  What it is she keeps entreatin’ an’ beseechin’ for we never can make out, though I’d cut my hand off to get it for her, she’s sech a patient, grateful leetle soul.  But”—­Josh started up; a sudden hope had dawned upon him as he looked across at Father Friday’s strong, kind face—­“perhaps you could tell.  Bullets an’ bombshells, that’s a lucky idee!  I’ll go an’ ask Mirandy about it.”