Nobody came; the first pink sunbeams fell level over the pasture; dew sparkled on grass and foliage; birds flitted across her line of vision; the stream sang steadily, flashing in the morning radiance.
One by one the ducks stretched, flapped their snowy wings, wiggled their fat tails, and waddled solemnly down to the water; hens wandered pensively here and there, pecking at morsels that attracted them; the tinkle of the cow bell sounded pleasantly from a near willow thicket.
She washed her dishes, set the scant furniture in place, made up the bed with the clean sheet spread the night before, and swept the floor.
On the table she had discovered, carefully folded up, the greater portion of a stocking, knitting needles still sticking in it, the ball of gray yarn attached. But she could not endure to sit there; she must have more space to watch for what she knew was coming. Her hair she twisted up as best she might, set the pink sunbonnet on her head, smoothed out the worn print dress, which was not long enough to hide her slim bare ankles, and went out, taking her knitting with her.
Upon the hill along the edges of the pasture where the woods cast a luminous shadow she found a comfortable seat in the sun-dried grasses, and here she curled up, examining the knitting in her hands, eyes lifted every moment to steal a glance around the sunlit solitude.
An hour crept by, marked by the sun in mounting splendor; the sweet scent of drying grass and fern filled her lungs; the birds’ choral thrilled her with the loveliness of life. A little Southern song trembled on her lips, and her hushed voice murmuring was soft as the wild bees’ humming:
“Ah, who could couple thought of war and crime
With such a blessed time?
Who, in the west wind’s aromatic breath,
Could hear the call of Death?”
The gentle Southern poet’s flowing rhythm was echoed by the distant stream:
“ … A fragrant breeze comes floating by,
And brings—you know not why—
A feeling as when eager crowds await
Before a palace gate
Some wondrous pageant–”
She lifted her eyes, fixing them upon the willow thicket below, where the green tops swayed as though furrowed by a sudden wind; and watching calmly, her lips whispered on, following the quaint rhythm:
“And yet no sooner shall the Spring awake
The voice of wood and brake
Than she shall rouse—for all her tranquil charms—
A million men to arms.”
The willow tops were tossing violently. She watched them, murmuring:
“Oh! standing on this desecrated mold,
Methinks that I behold,
Lifting her bloody daisies up to God,
Spring—kneeling on the sod,
And calling with the voice of all her rills
Upon the ancient hills
To fall and crush the tyrants and the slaves
Who turn her meads to graves.”
Her whisper ceased; she sat, lips parted, eyes fastened on the willows. Suddenly a horseman broke through the thicket, then another, another, carbines slung, sabres jingling, rider following rider at a canter, sitting their horses superbly—the graceful, reckless, matchless cavalry under whose glittering gray curtain the most magnificent army that the South ever saw was moving straight into the heart of the Union.
Fascinated, she watched an officer dismount, advance to the house, enter the open doorway, and disappear. Minute after minute passed; the troopers quietly sat their saddles; the frightened chickens ventured back, roaming curiously about these strange horses that stood there stamping, whisking their tails, tossing impatient heads in the sunshine.
Presently the officer reappeared and walked straight to the barn, a trooper dismounting to follow him. They remained in the barn for a few moments only, then hurried out again, heads raised, scanning the low circling hills. Ah! Now they caught sight of her! She saw the officer come swinging up the hillside, buttons, spurs, and sword hilt glittering in the sun; she watched his coming with a calm almost terrible in its breathless concentration. Nearer, nearer he came, mounting the easy slope with a quick, boyish swing; and now he had halted, slouch hat aloft; and she heard his pleasant, youthful voice:
“I reckon you haven’t seen a stranger pass this way, ma’am, have you?”
“There was a lady came last night,” she answered innocently.
“That’s the one!” he said, in his quick, eager voice. “Can you tell me where she went?”
“She said she was going west.”
“Has she gone?”
“She left the house when I did,” answered the girl simply.
“Riding!” he exclaimed. “She came on a hoss, I reckon?”
“Yes.”
“And she rode west?”
“I saw her going west,” she nodded, resuming her knitting.
The officer turned toward the troopers below, drew out a handkerchief and whipped the air with it for a second or two, then made a sweeping motion with his arm, and drawing his sabre struck it downward four times.
Instantly the knot of troopers fell apart, scattering out and spurring westward in diverging lines; the officer watched them until the last horse had disappeared, then he lazily sheathed his sabre, unbuckled a field glass, adjusted it, and seated himself on the grass beside her.
“Have you lived here long?” he asked pleasantly, setting the glass to his eye and carefully readjusting the lens.
“No.”
“Your father is living, is he not?”
She did not reply.
“I reckon Gilson’s command met him a piece back in the scrub, driving a wagon and a fine horse.”
She said nothing; her steady fingers worked the needles, and presently he heard her softly counting the stitches as she turned the heel.
“He said we’d find his ‘Cynthy’ here,” observed the youthful officer, lowering his glass. “Are you Cynthia Gray, ma’am?”
“He named me Cynthia,” she said, with a smile.
He plucked a blade of grass, and placing it between his white teeth, gazed at her so steadily that she dropped a stitch, recovered it, and presently he saw her lips resuming the silent count. He reseated himself on the grass, laying his field glass beside him.
“I reckon your folk are all Yankee,” he ventured softly.
She nodded.
“Are you afraid of us? Do you hate us, ma’am?”
She shook her head, stealing a glance at him from her lovely eyes. If that was part of her profession, she had learned it well; for he laughed and stretched out, resting easily on one elbow, looking up at her admiringly under her faded sunbonnet.
“Are you ever lonely here?” he inquired gravely.
Again her dark eyes rested on him shyly, but she shook her head in silence.
“Never lonely without anybody to talk to?” he persisted, removing his slouched army hat and passing his hands over his forehead.
“What have I to say to anybody?” she asked coquettishly.
A little breeze sprang up, stirring his curly hair and fluttering