“NOW LET’S PLAY IT’S A REAL PARTY.”

A YANKEE GIRL
AT
SHILOH

By
Alice Turner Curtis

Author of

The Little Maid’s Historical Series, “A Yankee Girl at Fort Sumter,” “A Yankee Girl at Bull Run,” etc.

Illustrated by ISABEL W. CALEY

THE PENN PUBLISHING
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA
1922

COPYRIGHT
1922 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

A Yankee Girl at Shiloh

Made in the U. S. A.

Introduction

Mrs. Curtis in the two other books of this set, “A Yankee Girl at Fort Sumter” and “A Yankee Girl at Bull Run,” has told delightful stories of little Northern heroines at these great battles.

In this present story Berenice Arnold with her mother and father came from Vermont to the mountains of Tennessee in order that Mr. Arnold might regain his health. During the second winter of their stay the Armies of the North and the South began to draw closer to Shiloh, which was not far from the Arnold cabin. Berry had many exciting adventures. She found a young runaway slave-girl, who was sheltered by her parents and proved a devoted friend. She was mistaken for a boy by a Southern spy because of the fact that she wore blue corduroy knickerbockers. He tried to force her to bear secret messages to his Commander, but Berry, braving his anger and the misunderstandings in the Northern camp, managed to give military information to the Northern Army, which enabled it to gain a complete victory. Her deed was so splendid that General Grant himself visited the Arnold cabin to dine with Berry and thank her personally.

Contents

Illustrations

A Yankee Girl at Shiloh

CHAPTER I
“BERRY”

There had been a light fall of snow during the night, and the tall oak trees that grew near the Arnolds’ log cabin, which stood on the slope of a wooded ridge overlooking the Tennessee River, were still sprinkled with clinging white flakes when the heavy door of the cabin was pushed open and a slender little figure appeared on the rough porch.

If a stranger had been passing along the trail that led near this secluded cabin he would perhaps have decided that it was a boy who darted out and jumped up and down exclaiming, “Snow! Snow! Just like Vermont snow!” for the curling brown hair was cut short, and the blue flannel blouse, the baggy knickerbockers of blue corduroy, as well as the stout leather shoes, were all in keeping as a suitable costume for a ten-year-old lad whose home was a log cabin in the rough region on the westerly bank of the Tennessee River, over two hundred miles from its mouth. And when some casual stranger, failing to see the blue corduroys, so mistook Berenice Arnold, and called her “my lad,” she was very well pleased.

On this January morning, in 1862, Berenice had been awakened at an unusually early hour by a call from her father, telling her to dress quickly and hasten down in time to see the snow, that lay like a white veil over the wooded slopes, before the sun came out from behind the distant mountains and swept it away.

“Snow! Berry! Not enough for a sleigh ride, but enough to make you think of Vermont,” he had called, as if announcing an unexpected delight. For the Arnolds had only lived in Tennessee for two years. Berry was nine years old when, with her father and mother and her older brother Francis, she had left the big white house in the pleasant Vermont village near Montpelier and come to this hillside cabin where Mr. Arnold hoped to regain something of his former health and strength. This was the second winter, and this fall of snow in early January was the first real snowfall since their arrival. There had been many “flurries,” but, until this January morning, not enough had fallen to whiten wood and trail; and the Arnolds ran to door and windows exclaiming over the new beauty of the slopes and forest beneath their white coverlets.

“What would Francis say to this?” exclaimed Berry, as her father came out and stood beside her.

Francis was now a soldier, with the Northern forces in Virginia, and Berry’s thoughts were often with her brother; wondering why he had been so determined, a year ago, to return to Vermont and enlist in a Northern regiment in the conflict to prevent the Southern States from leaving the Union, and to bring an end to the slavery of the negroes in America. Francis had been only eighteen when he had become a soldier, and Berry knew that her father and mother had both been willing that he should go. The little girl had often puzzled about it, for she had heard her father say that when Abraham Lincoln became President the United States would soon understand each other and all the talk of war would come to an end. But even Mr. Lincoln had not been able to avert the conflict; and the hillside cabin, ten miles distant from the flourishing town of Corinth, was shadowed by the news of far-off battles.

“You must write Francis about it,” responded Berry’s father; “tell him the slope is as white as the main street at home in Vermont in midwinter.” And Berry nodded smilingly.

“It will be gone before noon, so we can go out to the river road, and see what the mail-rider left for us yesterday,” continued Mr. Arnold.

“And, if ’tis not too muddy, can we not walk as far as Lick Creek and try for fish?” asked Berry, her brown eyes shining with eagerness at the thought of a long tramp with her father through the winter woods, and, best of all, the fun of catching a pickerel or bass from the waters of Lick Creek. For, in the two years that Berry had lived on this remote mountain slope, she had been her father’s constant companion in his out-of-door life, and it was for that reason that her mother had decided to dress the little girl in suitable clothing. If Berry had been obliged to wear dainty clothes, if her hair had been long and hung down her back in curls or braids, and her feet covered only by thin kid shoes, she would never have known every nook and crevice along the table-land, rolling and ridgy, a few miles above Pittsburg Landing, a place that was to become an historic spot.

“No fishing to-day,” her father declared; and, as at that moment Mrs. Arnold called them to breakfast, he did not add that he intended going in the opposite direction that morning to visit the rude log chapel known as Shiloh church, where Sunday services were occasionally held, and where Mr. Arnold now and then busied himself in repairing windows, painting the outer door, and doing such light work as his strength was equal to, in improving the condition of the neglected building. Berry was of great assistance to her father in this work; he had taught her how to use a plane, and smooth off a piece of wood until it was fit for use. She knew the names and use of all the tools he used about his carpentering work; and as a trip to Shiloh church meant a picnic dinner cooked in the open air, Berry was always well pleased when her father set off in that direction; and on hearing that he intended to start as soon as the sun was well up she quite forgot her plan to visit Lick Creek.

Berry helped her mother clear the table and wash the dishes while her father selected the few tools he would need, and also packed a small basket with food for their midday meal; and when he called “All ready for the trail,” Berry slipped on her brown corduroy jacket and her knitted cap of scarlet wool and was ready to start.

“If there is a letter from Francis in the mail-box I will bring it home as fast as I can, Mother,” she promised, as Mrs. Arnold stood on the porch to watch them start.

“We will be home before sunset,” Mr. Arnold promised, and followed Berry, who was running down the trail.

Mrs. Arnold stood looking after them for a moment, smiling at Berry’s delight in starting off for a day in the woods, and thinking gratefully of her husband’s improvement in health. Their cabin was several miles from any neighbors, and Mrs. Arnold had in the first months of their stay often been homesick for the friends and home she had left so far away among the peaceful hills of Vermont. But gradually the peace and quiet of their simple life in the hillside cabin, Berry’s happiness in playing out-of-doors, and, best of all, the improvement in Mr. Arnold’s health, reconciled her to the exile from New England. Often she accompanied her husband and Berry on their excursions, but this morning she intended writing a long letter to her soldier son.

Before Berry and her father reached the mail-box, that was fastened to a stout oak tree on the highway, the veil of snow had nearly disappeared, and the piles of brown leaves along the trail glistened in the morning sun. There was nothing in the box, and Mr. Arnold and Berry turned back into a path that would lead them direct to Shiloh church. A flock of bluejays started up from the underbrush and went scolding and screaming into the branches of a tall chestnut tree, their blue feathers and crested heads catching the sunlight and brightening the shadowy path. Berry gazed after them wonderingly. “I do think it’s a pity they squawk so,” she said thoughtfully, “when they are so lovely to look at. And the mocking-birds are so plain and gray.”

Berry had become familiar with the birds who nested near the woodland cabin, and had learned much about their ways. She knew that the handsome jay was a thief who ate the eggs from the nests of other birds and sometimes even destroyed the birds. She knew where the fine cardinal in his scarlet coat, and Madam Cardinal in her more modest colors, made their nest in the underbrush along the banks of the ravine; and the tiny wrens who fluttered about the trail were her friends. But, best of all, Berry loved the mocking-birds, with their musical trills and clear song. Even in January they could be heard near the cabin; not with their springtime song, but with soft notes and hopeful calls. The little girl often put bits of bread and cake on the porch rail, and it was not long before the birds had discovered this unexpected bounty and came fluttering down to look for it; and gradually the family had all made friends among their bird neighbors, giving them names, and keeping a sharp outlook for the young birds who were their springtime visitors.

“What are you going to do to-day, Father?” Berry questioned as they came in sight of the log building that stood on the crest of the ridge.

“I am going to fix the benches. Some of them are dropping to pieces,” responded her father. “I have a good store of fine oak wood dry and ready for use in the shed near the church, and we can soon make the old seats as good as new.”

“And may I put the new rail on the pulpit? I have polished it until it shines like glass,” said Berry, as they came out into the little clearing in which the church stood.

“Of course,” her father agreed, smiling down at his little daughter’s eager face. He was well pleased that Berry found pleasure in the outdoor life, that she was learning to do many things that little girls seldom have an opportunity to learn, and that she was as active and healthy as it was possible for a girl to be.

Before beginning the work he had planned Mr. Arnold stood looking at the wild country spread out before him. “Look, Berry,” he said, pointing to a ravine on the left, along which ran the main road to Corinth. “This spot is like a picture in a frame,” he continued, “the little streams of Owl Creek and Lick Creek, the road to Corinth, and the Tennessee River making the frame. It would make a safe camp for an army,” he added thoughtfully, but without an idea that within three months that very spot would be the scene of one of the most important battles of the Civil War; or that his little daughter who stood so quietly beside him would, by her courage and endurance, have rendered a great service to the cause of the Northern forces.

They had walked a long distance, and seated themselves on the broad step of the chapel for a rest.

“It is nearly noon; I’ll start our fire and get lunch under way,” said Mr. Arnold. But Berry was eager to do this; for she knew exactly how to lay a fire in the open; how to bake potatoes in hot ashes, and to broil bacon over the coals; and to set the tin pail, in which they made coffee, where it would boil slowly.

“All right,” agreed Mr. Arnold, “I’ll fetch the wood.”

Berry ran along the ridge to where a granite ledge made a good shelter for a blaze, and in a short time a little curl of smoke crept into the air, and the appetizing odor of broiling bacon and of fragrant coffee made Mr. Arnold declare that he was “hungry as a bear,” greatly to Berry’s delight.

“Wouldn’t it be splendid if Francis was here?” she said, as she and her father began their luncheon.

“Not much hope of seeing Francis this winter,” replied Mr. Arnold.

“I hate war!” Berry declared, breaking open a well-baked potato, and proceeding to sprinkle salt on it. “If it were not for war Francis would be here this minute.”

“No; Francis would be in college,” her father rejoined.

“What’s college?” Berry demanded.

“Why, Berenice Isabel Arnold!” exclaimed her father in amazement. “I will have to turn schoolmaster and keep you shut in the house with books if you really do not know the meaning of ‘college’!”

Berry shook her head: her mouth was filled with hot potato, and she could not speak.

“College is a school where young men like Francis learn more important things than can be taught to younger boys,” explained her father. “And I have made up my mind, Berry; to-morrow your regular lessons begin.”

“Oh, Father! Not like the school at home?” Berry pleaded. “Not geography and maps, and arithmetic and sums, and grammar and compositions?”

“Exactly! It will never do for a little Yankee girl, even if she does live in Tennessee, to grow up without an education. School will begin to-morrow!” replied Mr. Arnold.

“Then Mollie Bragg will have to go to school with me,” Berry declared.

CHAPTER II
MOLLIE BRAGG

The nearest neighbors to the Arnolds were a family named Bragg, who lived in a cabin some three miles distant, near the road leading to Corinth. The Braggs’ cabin was not a comfortable, convenient home such as the Arnolds had made their own mountain cabin. The doors of the Braggs’ cabin sagged from clumsy leather hinges; the floor of the rough porch was broken here and there, so that anyone entering the house had to be careful where he stepped. Mr. Bragg announced each day that he was “gwine ter try mighty hard to find time to fix that po’ch, an’ mend up the roof.” But days, weeks, and months went by and no repairs were made, although Mr. Bragg spent long hours on the porch, tilted back against the house in an old chair, smoking, and, as he would promptly explain to any visitor, “tryin’ to rest up.”

Indoors Mrs. Bragg swept and scoured, mended the poor garments of her family, and tried her best to make the rough place pleasant for her children. Mollie Bragg, the youngest of the family, was a little girl about the age of Berenice Arnold, but not as tall or strongly built as Berry. Mollie’s eyes were a pale blue, her hair, which hung straight about her thin little face, was a pale yellow, and her arms and legs were so thin that Berry sometimes wondered that they did not break as Mollie ran down the rough mountain paths, or valiantly followed Berry in climbing a tall tree to peer into the nest of a robin or yellowhammer. Mollie’s elder sister had left home, the year the Arnolds came to Tennessee, to live with an aunt in Nashville, and the only son, a lad of sixteen, had run away to join the army of the Confederacy, so that in January, 1862, Mollie was the only child at home.

Although the Arnold and Bragg cabins were three miles apart, hardly a day passed that Mollie and Berry did not see each other. Mollie would often set out early in the morning and appear at the Arnolds’ door before they had finished breakfast, to be eagerly welcomed by Berry, and urged to a seat at the round breakfast table near the big window that overlooked the ravine by Mrs. Arnold, and helped to the well-cooked porridge, followed by crisp bacon and toast, and often a dish of stewed fruit, all of which the little visitor evidently enjoyed.

To Mollie the Arnolds’ cabin seemed the finest place in the world. Although it had only five rooms, and the family had their meals in the kitchen, it was indeed a pleasant and attractive home, with its muslin-curtained windows, its floors painted a shining yellow, with rag rugs here and there, the open fire in the sitting-room that blazed so cheerfully on winter days, the well-filled bookshelves in one corner and the stout wooden chairs and settles with their big feather-filled cushions. Mr. Arnold had spent a good part of his time in improving the cabin from the rough state in which they had found it, and had made most of the simple furniture. A vine-covered fence enclosed the yard, where Berry had her own garden. Each spring she began by planting lettuce and radishes, and then peas and carrots and string beans; before these had time to sprout she had bordered her vegetable beds with spring flowers. Mollie learned many things from her new friends, and, in her turn, showed Berry where the wild trillium and Jack-in-the-pulpit could be found, and where to look for the nests of cardinal and mocking-bird, birds that the little Yankee girl had never seen before coming to Tennessee. Therefore when Mr. Arnold declared that it was time for Berry to have regular lessons, “to begin school,” as he termed it, it was quite natural for Berry to say that Mollie Bragg would also have to study.

There was no schoolhouse within miles of these mountain cabins where the little girls could “begin school,” and Berry understood that her father would be her teacher. And on the day after their excursion to Shiloh church Mr. Arnold told Berry that she could go to the Braggs’ cabin and ask Mollie to be her schoolmate.

“Tell her school begins at ten o’clock each morning and closes at twelve,” he said as Berry put on her cap and started toward the door.

“And say to Mrs. Bragg that we shall expect Mollie to stay for dinner,” added Mrs. Arnold, who realized that the Bragg family seldom had the kind of food that would nourish a delicate child like Mollie, and welcomed the opportunity to give her small neighbor one good meal each day.

“All right,” Berry called back, as she ran down the path, turning to wave her hand before the thick growing forest trees hid her from sight.

Berry’s way led through the forest, across a wide brook that went dancing down over its rocky bed toward the river, and then the path turned into the highway near which was the rough clearing surrounding the Braggs’ cabin. A tiny gray bird called “Chick-a-dee-dee-dee,” as if to greet the red-capped little figure that ran so swiftly along the rough path. Further on she heard the cheerful whistle of the cardinal, and stopped for a moment to look up into the wide-spreading branches of the big trees that towered above her, hoping for a glimpse of the red-coated songster, but he was not to be seen.

The crossing of the wide brook meant stepping carefully from stone to stone until the middle of the stream was reached, where a broad flat rock gave a firm foothold, and from which Berry was accustomed to jump to the opposite bank. She made the passage skilfully, springing over the rushing water and landing on firm ground with the lightness and sure footing of an active boy; before she had taken a further step, however, a chuckling voice close at hand called: “Well done, youngster! It takes a Tennessee lad to jump,” and Berry found herself facing a tall man whose face was nearly covered by a brown beard, and whose brown eyes twinkled with amusement at her surprise. He wore a round, close-fitting cap of coonskin, a leather jacket, with stout trousers of corduroy and high boots. A hunter’s belt held a revolver and hunting-knife, and a knapsack was strapped across his shoulders. It was seldom that Berry encountered anyone in her forest tramps, but she had been taught to believe in the friendliness of the mountain people, and smiled and nodded in response to the man’s greeting.

“I can jump farther than that,” she boasted. “I can jump farther than most boys of my age.”

The man nodded approvingly. “Well, you ain’t so stocky as some,” he said thoughtfully. “Guess your ma kind of likes to dress you up, don’t she, sonny?” he continued, with an amused glance at Berry’s red silk tie and scarlet wool cap.

Berry nodded. If this stranger mistook her for a boy she did not mean to undeceive him.

“Well,” continued the man, “you can’t help that, my lad. What’s your name?”

“Berry,” responded the little girl.

“Berry what?” he continued.

“Berenice,” said Berry, thinking that now the stranger had discovered her secret, and that he would at once tell her that the place for little girls was at home, helping their mother, as Mr. Bragg so often announced.

But the man evidently had not understood her. “‘Nees,’ eh! Berry Nees. Well, you mountain folks have queer names. But I’m glad to make your acquaintance. I reckon you can run considerable as well as jump?”

“Yes,” Berry replied quickly, well pleased that she need not hear that “Girls should not be running wild in boys’ clothes,” as had sometimes been said to her. “I can run faster than Len Bragg, who is sixteen years old.”

“Where does Len Bragg live?” questioned the man.

“Oh! He’s in the war! He’s with General Johnston’s army,” replied Berry promptly.

“That’s right!” declared the man approvingly. “There’s not a finer man in the Confederate army than Albert Sidney Johnston.”

Berry had heard her own father praise General Johnston’s character, so she was not surprised, and replied politely, “Yes, sir.”

“I’m bound for Corinth myself,” continued the man. “I’ve journeyed across country from Fort Donelson, and I reckon I shan’t stop long at Corinth; like as not I may come back this way, long in the spring,” and the man smiled to himself as if well pleased with such a prospect. “If I do, Berry, maybe I’ll want you to let me see if you can run as fast as you say. Maybe I’ll want you to take a message to Pittsburg Landing in a hurry for me.” And the man’s eyes rested sharply upon Berry.

Before Berry could reply the man spoke again, and in a sharper tone than he had yet used.

“And see here, my lad! Don’t you let on to a living soul about having met me. Understand?” and his hand touched the sheath of his hunting-knife in a threatening manner. But Berry did not wait to answer; she was off like a flash, not keeping to the path, but darting behind big trees, circling around underbrush and at last hiding behind a tall stump. She heard the man crashing along behind her, but Berry’s boast of being a swift runner was well proved; the woodsman could not overtake her. Berry smiled to herself as she heard him floundering about through the thickets. She was not at all afraid of being caught, for she knew all the forest ways, and many a hiding-place. She kept very quiet, however, and did not venture out from behind the stump until a hovering flock of nuthatches, who had been scolding vigorously at being disturbed, settled down in a near-by thicket.

“He’s gone,” she whispered, and stepped cautiously out; “he didn’t come this way or the nuthatches would not have stopped flying.”

Berry peered sharply about, however, as she made her way noiselessly from tree to tree, stopping often to listen for any sound that might mean she was being followed, but, except for the far-off call of woodland birds, the forest was quiet. Berry was sure the man had given up trying to find her, and hastened down the ridge to the Braggs’ cabin. She said nothing of her adventure to the Braggs, but told of her father’s plan for morning lessons. “Mollie may come every day, may she not?” she pleaded; “and Mother wants her to stay for dinners.”

Mrs. Bragg’s anxious face had brightened as Berry spoke of lessons, and she answered quickly, “I reckon prayers are answered, fer I’ve been a hopin’ and a prayin’ there’d be some chance for Mollie to get book-larnin’, but no way seemed to open, and now your folks come along an’ want to teach her. Of course she can come, an’ mighty thankful fer the chanst,” and Mrs. Bragg wiped her faded eyes with the corner of her worn apron, and managed to smile at Mollie, who was jumping up and down as if too happy to keep still. Mr. Bragg had started off to look after the traps he set along the river banks for muskrats, whose skins he sold to a trader in Corinth, so there was no argument about the “foolishness of book-larnin’,” for Mr. Bragg often proudly announced that he “never had no schoolin’, an’ never was any the wus’ fer it,” without any idea that his poverty and laziness had been caused by his ignorance.

“School begins to-morrow,” Berry added, “at ten o’clock.”

“What will we learn to-morrow?” Mollie asked eagerly, her pale blue eyes shining with delight.

Berry shook her head. “I don’t know. I expect it will be a surprise. I don’t believe it will be like a real school,” she replied.

Mollie’s smile vanished. To go to a “real school” seemed the finest thing in the world to the little mountain girl, who had not even known the letters of the alphabet until Berry had taught them to her, and who could now, at ten years of age, only read words of one syllable, and was just beginning to learn the meaning of figures.

Berry was quick to notice the change in Mollie’s expression, and added, “I mean we won’t sit behind little desks, and keep as quiet as mice, the way girls do in schools.”

“P’raps we will,” Mollie rejoined hopefully; “p’raps I’ll learn writin’.”

“Of course you will,” Berry declared, and Mollie’s smile promptly reappeared.

“May I spin this morning?” Berry asked, going toward the big spinning-wheel that stood in one corner of the kitchen, on which Mrs. Bragg spun the yarn for the stockings worn by the family, and often permitted Berry to spin the soft fleecy rolls of wool into yarn. Berry always considered this permission a great privilege, and her father had promised to make a spinning-wheel for her.

Usually Mrs. Bragg was quite ready to let Berry try her hand at the wheel, but this morning she shook her head dolefully.

“The wheel’s give out,” she declared. “Steve promised to take a look at it, but land knows when he’ll get ’round to it.”

Berry approached the big wheel and looked at it anxiously. “What’s the matter with it?” she asked.

“’Twon’t move!” and to prove this Mrs. Bragg touched the rim of the wheel, that usually responded to the lightest touch, but now kept firm and steady.

Berry had watched her father in his work with tools, had seen him oil hinges that would not move, or loosen nuts that held some wheel or bar too tightly, and she had been taught to do many things that most little girls never learn; so now she examined the wheel with so serious a face that Mrs. Bragg looked at her in amazement.

“If I had a screw-driver and an oil-can I believe I could fix it,” she declared.

“Fer the land’s sake!” muttered Mrs. Bragg. “We never saw a screw-driver, but there’s a broken knife that’ll twist a screw mighty fine.”

“Perhaps that would do,” Berry responded gravely, and Mollie ran off to find the broken knife, while Berry peered under the wheel-bench to make sure that she understood the simple movement of the wheel.

Mrs. Bragg watched Berry as the little girl carefully loosened and adjusted the axle on which the wheel turned, until it would move, but it did not move smoothly.

“It needs a drop of oil!” Berry announced.

But the Bragg cabin could furnish nothing better than a bit of melted tallow, and Mrs. Bragg declared that far superior to oil, and hastened to prepare it, and at last, to the amazement and delight of Mrs. Bragg and Mollie, and to Berry’s great satisfaction, the big wheel revolved as swiftly as ever.

“I reckon you know ter do sich things, Berry, on account of being a Yankee girl,” Mrs. Bragg declared admiringly. “Steve says folks up North prides theirselves on workin’, an’ on inventin’ ways ter make work. I declar’ to it, I’ll have ter rest a spell,” and Mrs. Bragg sank down on a wooden bench near the door.

“Maw, tell Berry that story you tole me ’bout the selfish mouse,” said Mollie. “Maw kin tell gran’ stories, Berry,” the little girl continued eagerly. “W’en we wus off up in the mountains she used ter tell a new one mos’ every night.”

Berry’s face brightened at the prospect of a story, and Mrs. Bragg said she would tell it as nearly as she could remember it.

“It’s ’bout a mouse that jes’ was set on gettin’ all he could fer hisself,” she explained. “This mouse lived with his mother an’ four brothers in a fine cabin whar thar was a big cupboard. Thar was cakes an’ cheese an’ nice white bread, an’ cold meat; an’, like as not, thar was raisins an’ nuts in that thar cupboard. But the door was allers kep’ shut tight, an’ thar was a big white cat that, seemingly, was allers lurkin’ roun’ that pantry door. So Mother Mouse warned her children to be satisfied with the crumbs they could pick up ’roun’ the kitchen. But one day one of the little mice found that the door was open and he slipped in, an’ ’twa’n’t a minute afore that little mouse found a big round cheese an’ began to nibble it; an’ he was so busy and so happy that he didn’t hear the cupboard door shut, or notice that ’twas dark.

“Wal, Mother Mouse didn’t miss him fer a considerable spell, bein’ busy collectin’ grain jest outside the cabin. But when it began ter get dark she calls fer the young ones so’s to settle down fer the night, an’ she finds one of ’em don’ come. The first thing Mother Mouse thought of was the white cat, but the cat wasn’t anywhar ter be seen; so Mother Mouse goes all about the kitchen calling the missing mouse, an’ when she crept by the cupboard she heard a little bit of a squeak, and then she stopped mighty quick. She knew the little mouse was in that cupboard, an’ she prob’ly knew that thar war traps set in it. So she calls her fam’ly an’ then says she, ‘Your brother is in thar, an’ we mus’ get him out. Now the folks have all gone to bed, an’ we’ll begin work.’ So she began to nibble at the edge of the door, and the little mice did their best to help her, and jes’ ’fore daylight there was a hole big enough for the little mouse to come through. But he wouldn’t come. Says he, ‘I only squeaked so you’d know that I’m well fixed fer life,’ says he. ‘I ain’ no need ever to gather kitchen crumbs again,’ he says, ‘an’ so you can all go your ways an’ ferget me.’ An’ he ran back to his cheese. Wal, at that very minute the woman of the house came into the kitchen to light up the fire, an’ she sees the mice. ‘My land!’ she calls out; an’ off went Mother Mouse and all her family into a safe hiding-place. But the woman opened the cupboard door, and then she called, ‘Puss, puss!’ an’ the big cat came running, an’ into the pantry she sprung an’ the little mouse, who had felt so grand and had scorned his own folks who were tryin’ ter help him, was so stupid and clumsy because he had eaten so much that he couldn’t run, and in a minute the cat had grabbed him and fetched him out to the kitchen an’ ate him up. Thar,” Mrs. Bragg concluded, “I guess I’ll hev to stir up a corn pone fer dinner,” and she got up from the bench.

“What became of the Mother Mouse and the other little mice?” Berry demanded.

But Mrs. Bragg shook her head, “I reckon they jes’ moved away,” she said.

It was now nearly noon, and Berry realized that she must get home as soon as possible; so reminding Mollie that “school” would begin the next morning, she bade them good-bye.

As soon as she had left the Bragg cabin Berry’s thoughts flew back to the man she had encountered that morning. Although she had not spoken of him to Mrs. Bragg, for some reason that she could not easily account for, she was now eager to reach home and tell her father and mother of the stranger who had taken her for a boy, and who had threatened her.

“I’ll go home another path,” she decided. “I never want to see that man again,” and she made her way up the crest of the ridge, circling about thick growths of trees and underbrush, and coming into the trail that led to the cabin a mile above the place where she had encountered the stranger.

CHAPTER III
SCHOOL

It was with a grave face that Mr. Arnold listened to Berry’s story of her morning’s adventure at the brook; and her mother instantly declared that Berry could no longer run about alone. “The man was probably a Confederate spy,” she said anxiously, “and if he had discovered that a family from New England were living near by, that, instead of being a little boy of Tennessee, you were a little Yankee girl, we cannot tell what would have happened.”

“Yes, I believe the man has been traveling along the Cumberland and Tennessee Rivers looking over the Confederate line of defense, and his saying he might return this way in the spring may mean that the Confederates fear an attack will be made upon Fort Henry or Fort Donelson. If the Union army could capture these forts and open the Tennessee and Cumberland rivers, the Confederate line of defense would be destroyed,” said Mr. Arnold thoughtfully; and Mrs. Arnold instantly added, “We surely need not fear any battle taking place near this remote spot, but with spies everywhere we must take all possible precautions. I hope you did not tell the Braggs of meeting a stranger, Berry?” she added.

“No; I didn’t tell Mrs. Bragg. I don’t know why I didn’t,” Berry responded thoughtfully. “I guess I was really frightened after all, and didn’t want Mrs. Bragg to know it.”

“Nonsense, Berry!” said Mr. Arnold sharply. “You could run away from anyone. And if you blew your whistle, even if you were too far away for me to hear and come to your assistance, it would make any dangerous person sure that help was close at hand, and would probably frighten him away.”

Berry’s father did not like the idea of the little girl going about in fear. He knew it would destroy all her pleasure in the free woodland life which they had all taken so much happiness in. The whistle of which he spoke had been a gift to Berry from her brother Francis. It was a silver whistle, attached to a long silver chain that Berry always wore about her neck, with the whistle tucked into the pocket of her blouse. During the first year in the cabin Mr. Arnold had not been sufficiently strong to walk far, and it was Francis who had chopped the wood for the cabin fires, journeyed to Corinth for necessary provisions, and fished for bass and pickerel along the river; and Berry had often been his companion. He had given her the whistle so if she lost sight of him in the woodland trails she could instantly call him; and Berry valued it more than anything else and never left the cabin without it.

Nothing more was said that day in regard to the stranger, but in the afternoon Mr. Arnold started off into the forest, telling Berry that he thought she would better stay and keep her mother company. He followed the trail to the Braggs’ cabin, and made his way for some distance up the stream where Berry had encountered the stranger; but he found nothing to cause alarm, and was tempted to believe that, after all, the man might have been only a woodsman journeying across country, who had thought it an amusing game to frighten the small boy for whom he had mistaken Berry.

As he walked along the ridge and down the slope to his cabin Mr. Arnold thought to himself that, as his wife had said that noon, however the conflict went between the armies of the North and the South, there was small danger of its coming nearer to Shiloh church than the defensive line of the Confederates at the river forts, and which stretched on through Kentucky from the Mississippi River to the Cumberland Mountains. The control of this defense was in the hands of General Albert Sidney Johnston, a man respected alike by his opponents and his soldiers. His line of defense included Fort Henry, on the right bank of the Tennessee, and Fort Donelson, on the left bank of the Cumberland River; and Mr. Arnold was confident that General Ulysses S. Grant, the commander of Union forces in the West, would not long delay in an attempt to conquer these river strongholds. “With those forts destroyed Grant’s army could soon break the whole western line of defense,” reflected Mr. Arnold, little realizing that within a month this very thing would be accomplished.

Before Mr. Arnold reached home the sky filled with heavy clouds and it began to snow. “Glad Berry is indoors,” he thought, as he approached the cabin and saw the dancing blaze of the sitting-room fire shine out through the windows. Berry and her mother were on the settle beside the fire busy with sewing.

“It looks just like my things, only smaller,” said Berry, holding up a blue serge blouse.

“Only Mollie’s suit is a skirt and blouse, instead of knickerbockers,” her mother smilingly reminded her.

“Well, Mollie would like knickerbockers, but her father never would let her wear them,” said Berry. “Why does Mr. Bragg think I ought to wear long calico skirts, I wonder? I could not run or climb trees or jump across brooks if I wore skirts. Mollie is always tearing hers, and tumbling down when she runs after me.”

“Mr. Bragg doesn’t really think, my dear. He simply echoes,” responded Mrs. Arnold. “But I am sure Mollie will like her new skirt.”

“Won’t she be surprised, Mother, to have a birthday party? And on the very day school begins. The minute Mrs. Bragg said that January tenth was Mollie’s birthday I thought I’d make her a present; but it was you who thought of a party,” and Berry gazed admiringly at her pretty, smiling mother, who was always thinking of such interesting things for little girls to do. For it was Mrs. Arnold who had suggested ripping up a blue serge skirt of her own and making a blouse and skirt of it for Mollie. But it was Berry who, with her mother’s help, had cut out blouse and skirt, and who had stitched the seams and embroidered a star in red worsted on the corners of the collar.

When the Arnolds came to Tennessee they had brought a good store of clothing; but they had not believed a great war was so close at hand, a war that was to impoverish the Southern States and to make it nearly impossible for people to procure suitable clothing; and at the close of their second year in their mountain cabin the Arnolds began to realize that they must take good care of their garments, as they could not purchase new material in the town of Corinth. With the Braggs conditions were more difficult, as they had never possessed decent clothing; such dresses as Mrs. Bragg had managed to secure for herself and Mollie were worn to rags. Mrs. Arnold had given Mrs. Bragg a dress of stout gingham; but poor little Mollie ran about in a thin worn calico. Mrs. Arnold was teaching the little girl to knit a jacket for herself of the fine blue yarn that her mother spun, and, with a dress of serge, Mollie would soon be comfortably clothed.

When the last stitches were set and Mollie’s dress was quite finished, Berry carried the serge blouse and skirt into her own room, which opened from the sitting-room, and that was as pleasant a chamber as any little girl could ask. The floor of the room, like all the cabin floors, was painted yellow. The walls and ceiling were boarded with pine, whose soft color blended with the floor. Mr. Arnold and Francis had built this room on to the cabin, and its wide window overlooked the deep ravine toward Lick Creek. But a tall oak tree grew so close to the cabin on this side as to hide the little building from sight, and when Berry looked from her window she looked out between the branches of the trees toward rough banks and wooded ridges. Mr. Arnold had made the simple white bedstead that stood in Berry’s room, and the dressing-table, over which hung a small square mirror. And Francis had built the box-like window-seat, which Mrs. Arnold had covered with flowered chintz which she had brought with her from the North, and had made curtains for the window of the same material. A white rug of sheepskin lay beside the bed, and there was a chest of drawers in one corner of the room, and a small wooden rocking-chair painted white.

Berry put Mollie’s new dress in the lower drawer of the wide chest and looked at it admiringly. Then, from a far corner of the drawer she took a long package wrapped in a piece of newspaper—for tissue and wrapping paper were not easy to obtain in that part of the world in 1862—and unrolled it, and a small doll appeared, a doll made of cloth, whose hair was of yarn raveled from the foot of an old brown stocking; whose eyes were black buttons, and whose scarlet mouth had been marked by beet juice. The doll wore a gay dress made of bits of yellow silk from Mrs. Arnold’s scrap-bag. Her feet were covered with kid shoes, made from a worn-out glove, and the little hat, tied on with a bit of yellow silk, Berry had made by plaiting dried grasses.

“Mollie will like this doll, too,” Berry thought happily, as she returned the package to its former place. “I wish there were some other little girls to ask to her birthday party,” she thought, recalling her former playmates of the far-off Vermont village, where a birthday party had meant the gathering of at least a dozen little girls, all in pretty dresses, and each bringing a gift for the girl whose birthday they were celebrating. Berry smiled to herself as she glanced down at her stout leather boots and baggy knickerbockers. “They would all think my clothes as queer as Mr. Bragg does,” she thought, recalling the full flounced skirts and embroidered pantalettes that she had worn before coming to Shiloh.

Snow continued to fall during the night, so that Mollie’s feet were wet and her faded skirt more drabbled and limp than usual when she reached the Arnolds’ cabin the next morning. An old brown shawl of Mrs. Bragg’s covered her head and shoulders, and one end of it trailed behind her as she entered the pleasant kitchen.

Mrs. Arnold took off Mollie’s shawl as she welcomed their little visitor, and Berry ran for a pair of moccasin slippers that Mr. Arnold had made from tanned sheepskin, and in a few moments Mollie’s wet shoes had been set to dry and she was following Berry through the sitting-room to Berry’s chamber, looking about as she always did with admiring eyes at the simple comforts of a home so different from the Braggs’ dark, squalid cabin.

“Do you remember what day this is, Mollie?” Berry demanded as they entered her room.

Mollie nodded eagerly as she smiled radiantly up at her friend.

“’Deed I does. It’s the day school begins!” she responded, her pale eyes shining with delight.

“And what else?” questioned Berry.

Mollie’s smile faded and her face grew anxious.

“I dunno, Berry. It’s snowing; you don’t mean that, do you?” she questioned, and Berry gave a gay little laugh, and leaning toward her kissed Mollie’s cheek, saying, “Happy birthday, Mollie Bragg. Here you are, eleven years old to-day! And you forgot all about it!”

Mollie looked at her friend with wide eyes. “I ’most always fergits it,” she replied. “I guess nobody ever said ‘Happy birthday’ to me before.”

“Well, I’ll always say it to you after this, always!” Berry declared. “If I go back to Vermont and can’t say it, I’ll write it,” she promised; and it was a promise she remembered and fulfilled after the two little girls were separated by the long distance between Vermont and Tennessee.

As Berry spoke she turned toward the chest of drawers and said:

“Birthdays mean presents, and here are your birthday presents from Mother and me,” and Berry drew forth a little petticoat of soft gray flannel, one that she had formerly worn, and the blue serge blouse and skirt.

“Slip off your dress, Mollie, and we’ll see if they fit,” urged Berry, laying the garments on her bed, and before Mollie had recovered from her surprise she found herself dressed in the warm petticoat and the pretty serge dress, and Berry was tying one of her own scarlet neckties under the wide sailor collar of the blouse.

“There, Mollie! Look at yourself!” and Berry swung Mollie about in front of the small mirror, where the little girl gazed admiringly at her new appearance. Then, with a sober face, she began to untie the strip of scarlet silk and to unfasten the blouse.

“Don’t take them off, Mollie!” exclaimed the astonished Berry. “You are to wear them, to-day anyway.”

“Are they mine? Truly?” asked Mollie, as if unable to believe that she could really own such beautiful apparel.

“Of course they are yours. I helped to make them, but it was Mother who planned them,” responded Berry.

“O-ooh!” exclaimed Mollie; but before she could say anything more a bell in the sitting-room tinkled sharply.

“School! Father is waiting!” Berry exclaimed laughingly, and putting her arm about the blue-clad little figure she drew Mollie toward the door.

CHAPTER IV
A CABIN PARTY

There was nothing in the Arnolds’ sitting-room that January morning to remind Berry of a schoolroom unless it was the little brass bell that stood on the table beside which Mr. Arnold sat. Berry was so much in advance of Mollie in the usual school lessons that her father realized it would be difficult to teach the two little girls at the same time. The slate Berry had used in the village school in Vermont, and a box of slate pencils lay on the table, and a large atlas, opened at a good-sized map of the United States, was spread out beside it. While Mr. Arnold intended that Berry should have a proper knowledge of grammar and mathematics, he felt that she should understand something of the government under which she lived; and this morning he called the girls to look at the map of the United States, thinking it a good plan for both the girls to learn the names and location of the various states of the Union.

“Where’s Shiloh?” questioned Mollie, gazing wonderingly at the brightly colored spaces on the map which Mr. Arnold pointed out as the different states of the Union.

“Poor little Shiloh isn’t even a village, Mollie; it is only the name of a log church on a mountain ridge in Tennessee,” he responded. But before the year 1862 ended Shiloh was known all through the country as the name of the place of one of the most terrific battles of the Civil War and had become an historic spot.

“Here is Tennessee,” continued Mr. Arnold; “and this blue line is the Tennessee River. Along here,” and with a pencil he pointed out the course of the broad stream, “it sweeps for many miles along the boundary line of Alabama, then turns northerly, in this great curve, and flows past Fort Henry, and pours its waters into the Ohio River. Right here is Pittsburg Landing.”

Both the little girls exclaimed at this familiar name; for Pittsburg Landing was not many miles distant, and was the point where the river steamers landed freight for Corinth, eighteen miles distant.

Before the morning lesson hours were over Mollie had learned that Washington was the capital of the United States, where laws for the government of the Union were made. That the terrible war between the Southern and Northern States, with Francis Arnold in the Northern army and Len Bragg with the Southern troops, meant that the South wished to “secede,” to leave the Union, and form a new government. If the Northern armies won, the negroes would be freed, and the North and South remain a united nation. If the South conquered the North, slavery would continue, and there would be two separate governments.

“My Pa says the South will win,” Mollie announced. “He says they beat the Yankees at Bull Run,” she continued.

“Yes, the Southern troops are valiant fighters,” Mr. Arnold agreed; for he never forgot that the Union had been formed by South and North alike, and he hoped earnestly for a peace that would again unite them in a firm and lasting friendship.

Then, while Berry was learning the rules of a lesson in algebra, Mollie happily began her first effort in writing. The slate and pencil seemed a wonderful thing to the little mountain girl, and she patiently endeavored to copy the lines and letters that Mr. Arnold traced for her.

The clock struck twelve, and Mr. Arnold again tinkled the small brass bell, and said smilingly, “Pupils are expected to be in the schoolroom at ten sharp to-morrow morning.” As he finished speaking the door into the kitchen opened and Mrs. Arnold said:

“This is Mollie’s birthday dinner party, so she must lead the way to the table.”

“O-ooh!” Mollie whispered softly to herself, a little flush creeping over her thin face as Berry gave her a gentle push toward the kitchen, where the round table was spread for four, and where Mollie’s chair held the newspaper bundle containing the doll.

Mollie Bragg always remembered her eleventh birthday; and she always treasured the cloth doll, the only one she ever owned, and which she at once named “Mrs. Arnold.” There were broiled partridge for dinner, that Mr. Arnold had shot in the ravine two days before; and baked potatoes; there were spiced pears, that Mrs. Arnold had put up the previous autumn; and crisp hot rolls and steaming chocolate, a great luxury. And then a marvelous thing happened.

When Mollie believed that the dinner was quite over, and was again holding “Mrs. Arnold,” and almost too happy to believe in so much good fortune, Mrs. Arnold went to the pantry and came back bringing a round white-frosted cake, on which stood eleven tiny pink lighted candles.

“O-o-ooh!” again murmured Mollie, as Mrs. Arnold set this wonderful creation in front of her little guest.

“Your birthday cake, Mollie! Wish! Wish for something splendid. Then try to blow all the candles out with one breath, like this,” and Berry puffed out her cheeks and blew so strongly that the little flames wavered. “If all the candle flames go out your wish will come true before your next birthday,” Berry concluded earnestly.

Mollie promptly obeyed Berry’s directions, with such good success that every tiny flame was extinguished.

“Goody! Goody! But you mustn’t tell your wish until next birthday,” cautioned Berry, running around the table and carefully removing the candles from the cake. They were the same candles that had been used on Berry’s own cake on her eleventh birthday in October, and they were now carefully put away. For who could tell when it would again be possible to purchase wax candles?

Then Mrs. Arnold helped Mollie cut the cake, and at the first taste Mollie smiled more radiantly than ever, but quickly put the piece back on her plate.

“Don’t you like it, Mollie?” Berry asked anxiously.

“It’s beautiful!” Mollie replied soberly; “but I’m goin’ ter take it home ter Ma. May I?” she added, a little doubtfully.

“The whole cake is yours, Mollie dear. But you must eat the first piece yourself,” Mrs. Arnold said quickly; “you are to take the remainder home.”

Mollie drew a long breath. “I reckon my Ma never tasted a birthday cake,” she said soberly.

After dinner was over and Mollie had seen Mrs. Arnold put the cake carefully into a small basket, which she told the little girl she was to carry home, Berry and Mollie went back to the sitting-room; and Berry brought out her own two fine dolls, which had heads of china with black curls painted on them, and were dressed in white muslin and wore sashes of blue silk. Berry had brought these dolls from Vermont, and one was named Josephine Maria, for Berry’s Grandmother Arnold, who had given the dolls to Berry, and the other was called Maria Josephine. “Then, you see, neither one can be the favorite,” Berry explained, as she set the dolls side by side in her father’s big chair. “Now let’s play it’s a real party; my dolls and your doll can be ‘real’ girls, and we’ll talk for them,” she continued.

Mollie nodded with smiling delight, and for an hour or more the two little friends and their dolls played happily. But as the clock struck three Mollie announced that she must start for home.

“It gets shadowy and kinder fearsome in the woods come late afternoon,” she said, “and my Pa says that niggers are runnin’ off every little while, and maybe are hid up in the woods; so I’d be skeered to go home late.”

“Don’t be afraid of any poor colored man or woman who might be coming over the ridge, Mollie,” said Mrs. Arnold gently.

“You mean niggers?” questioned the little girl; and then added quickly, “Oh, Mrs. Arnold! I never knew how grand it would be to be eleven years old, and have a birthday cake, and a doll, and a dress!” And she looked from one gift to another with so radiant a face that Mrs. Arnold felt well rewarded for her friendly efforts for her small neighbor’s happiness. Berry had slipped on her cap and coat and was ready to go part of the way home with Mollie. Just as they had started Mollie suddenly turned back, and running to Mrs. Arnold she looked up at her and said earnestly, “I been tryin’ to say ‘thank you.’ But ’tain’t enough to say, fer all you give me. ’Tain’t enuff jes’ ter say, ‘Thank you!’”

“Indeed it is enough, dear Mollie,” responded Mrs. Arnold, leaning down to kiss the little face now flushed with the joy of her happy birthday.

Mrs. Arnold stood in the doorway of the cabin and watched the two little girls until the forest shut them from view. The snow had all vanished, the winter sun still shone warmly above the tree-tops, and only the caws of a passing flock of crows disturbed the perfect quiet of the scene.

CHAPTER V
LILY

Although Mrs. Arnold had told Mollie there was no need to fear the fugitive negroes who now and then made their way across the mountains, hoping to find freedom from slavery in the Northern States, the little girl’s words made Mrs. Arnold thoughtful. Supposing a fleeing Tennessee slave appealed to her for a hiding-place, or for assistance to escape into Kentucky, which remained loyal to the Union, while Tennessee was a Confederate state, what could she do? Mr. and Mrs. Arnold both realized that, even on that remote mountain ridge, the fact that they were from the North, that their son was a soldier in the Northern army, would naturally prejudice Southerners against them, and if any member of the little household was discovered befriending a fleeing negro—who in those days was regarded as a piece of property by his master, and could be dragged back into slavery—it would place them in a dangerous position.

She spoke of it to her husband, but Mr. Arnold saw no cause for uneasiness.

“Of course, if any human being came to our door in need we would have to do what we could for him. Especially if it were a black man or woman; for they have never had a fair chance in this country, and we are bound to help them. I do not think there are half a dozen people beside the Braggs who know anything about us; and they are our friends,” he concluded.

“Mr. Bragg declares he doesn’t care which side wins,” responded Mrs. Arnold. “He says he is ‘neutral,’ and that is why he is so angry at Len’s running away to join the Confederate army. But I don’t quite trust Steve Bragg.”

While Mr. and Mrs. Arnold discussed the questions that were then causing so much trouble, Berry and Mollie had reached the brook and were saying good-bye.

Berry had carefully explained just how Mollie’s doll had been made. “I spread out a piece of white cloth, doubled, and marked a doll out with a piece of charcoal, and then cut it out and stitched the two pieces together, just leaving a place open on top of the head, and then filled her with sawdust, sewed up the open place and covered her head with raveled yarn,” said Berry.

“P’raps I can make one!” Mollie suggested hopefully.

“Of course you could,” Berry agreed promptly.

“I’ll make a black nigger doll, so’s ‘Mrs. Arnold’ can have it for a slave,” said Mollie.

“Oh! Mollie, you can’t! That’s what this war is about; to make white people stop making slaves of black people; it isn’t fair!” declared Berry, and quickly added, “Mollie, why don’t you give your doll an easier name?”

“I don’t know any names. I loves your Ma, an’ I loves this doll; so I calls the doll ‘Mrs. Arnold,’” Mollie responded soberly, “an’ I don’ see no harm in makin’ a nigger doll.”

“Well, Mollie, my mother’s name is Ellen; why don’t you call the doll that?” Berry suggested.

“Oh! Yes! Ellen is lovely. ‘Mrs. Arnold,’ your name is ‘Ellen,’” Mollie promptly informed her doll, holding it out at arm’s length that she might better admire it.

“I’ll start back now,” said Berry. “School is going to be fine, isn’t it, Mollie?”

Mollie vigorously nodded her shawl-covered head. “It’s grand!” she declared; and then, coming very close to Berry, she whispered, “I’ve got a secret! Maybe I can tell it to you to-morrow!” and before Berry had time to question her, Mollie had taken the basket that held the precious birthday cake and started to cross the brook, making her way carefully from stone to stone. She did not leap from the broad stone to the opposite bank, as Berry delighted in doing, but followed the stepping-stones until the stream was safely crossed. Then she turned and called to Berry, who had stood waiting to be sure that Mollie crossed the stream in safety.

“I’m all right, Berry,” she called. “I think it’s fine to be eleven.”

“What’s the secret, Mollie?” Berry called back; but Mollie had turned and was hurrying off toward home. Berry looked after the little figure in the trailing shawl until it vanished in the forest path, and then turned and ran lightly up the ridge. A cold wind crept among the branches of the tall oaks as Berry ran; a rabbit leaped out from the underbrush and sped along before her for a short distance, and then vanished. Squirrels scolded noisily from the oak trees, and from the deep woods Berry could hear the distant call of some winter-loving bird. But the little girl hardly noticed these familiar sounds of the forest.

“I wonder what Mollie’s secret can be?” she thought, and resolved to start out and meet Mollie the next morning. “Then she can tell me before lesson-time,” she decided.

Berry had just reached this conclusion when her quick eye caught the movement of a dark object behind the underbrush that bordered the path. “A fox, maybe!” she thought, stopping to look more closely at the dark form. As she looked the figure raised itself from behind the underbrush and Berry gave a startled exclamation; for it was not a fox or any woodland animal that confronted her, but a young negro girl, evidently more frightened than Berry, and it was Berry who spoke first.

“What are you hiding there for?” Berry demanded. “Come out in the path where I can see you.”

There were few negroes near Shiloh, and since coming to live in the mountain cabin the little Yankee girl had seldom encountered them. But she knew that Tennessee was a state where negroes were considered as the property of white masters; that negroes possessed no rights in regard to protection from cruelty and injustice. If they were fortunate in belonging to a kind master, and there were many such throughout the slaveholding states, they were well treated; but if owned by cruel, ignorant men, the negroes were abused; and it was from such unfair treatment that they frequently endeavored to escape by fleeing North. But, unless they could reach Canada, there was no safety for them in the Northern States, as the law of the Union, then, gave their masters the right to pursue them and force them to return. To end this injustice was one of the chief reasons for the Civil War.

As Berry looked at the frightened black face that peered at her above the underbrush she instantly realized that this was a runaway slave, and she again called:

“Come out in the path where I can see you,” and now the negro girl crept out from her hiding-place and stood facing Berry.

“Oh, young Massa, don’ mek me go back,” she faltered. “I’se hongry an’ col’, an’ I dunno ’zackly whar I be; but I reckons, if yo’ jes’ go on, young Massa, I kin git off so’s I won’t be kotched,” and she fixed her big eyes pleadingly on Berry’s face, her thin form, clad in a ragged garment made of coarse bagging material, shivering in the cold.

“I’m a girl,” Berry announced. “You can’t hide out in the woods; it’s too cold. You’ll freeze,” she added quickly. “And you need not be afraid of me. I’ll help you.”

The negro girl stared at Berry as if even more frightened than before.

“Wot yo’ dressed up dis way for?” she asked.

“Never mind about me,” Berry replied, “but do as I say. If you will come with me you can have something warm to eat and drink, anyway. Then if you want to keep on running away you can.”

For a moment the little white girl, rosy, well clad, and unafraid, and the gaunt, half-clothed, frightened black girl faced each other. Then a softer expression crept over the face of the negro girl, and she took a step toward Berry. “I’se gwine ter trus’ yo’, young Mass—Missie,” she said softly.

Berry nodded. “Nobody shall hurt you,” she promised soberly. “And let’s run, or Father will be coming to find me.”

But the negro girl shook her head dolefully. “I cyan’t run, young Mass—Missie; my feetes is hurt,” and now for the first time Berry noticed that the girl’s legs were bare, and that her feet were protected from the rough, frozen ground only by worn pieces of cloth, tied about with string. And at this Berry exclaimed pityingly:

“Your poor feet! Well, we’ll go easy,” and she clasped the girl’s thin arm, and started forward.

The negro girl did not speak again until they came in sight of the cabin, then she stopped suddenly. “Yo’ ain’ gwine ter let nobuddy sen’ me back ter Alabamy?” she asked fearfully.

Berry’s clasp on the girl’s arm tightened. “I am going to help you, I am going to be your friend!” she promised earnestly. And the slave girl, meeting the pitying, friendly glance of Berry’s brown eyes, was convinced that the impossible had happened; that a runaway slave girl had really found a friend. From that moment she had full confidence in Berry; whatever Berry told her to do she did instantly, sure that no harm could befall her as long as Berry was near.

“What is your name?” Berry asked, as they reached the porch.

“My name’s Lily.”

Berry pushed open the door into the kitchen, still clasping her companion’s arm. “Mother, here is Lily!” she announced.

CHAPTER VI
SECRETS

Mrs. Arnold was busy at the kitchen table when Berry’s announcement: “Here is Lily!” caused her to turn toward the door, and it was small wonder that for a moment she was too surprised at the sight that confronted her to speak. But she quickly realized what had happened, that Berry had encountered a fugitive slave girl and brought her to the cabin, and poor Lily’s frightened, pleading eyes, as well as her half-clothed, trembling form, instantly appealed to Mrs. Arnold’s sympathies.

“Come right to the fire, Lily,” she said kindly. “And, Berry, you would better heat some milk at once.”

Mrs. Arnold did not ask any questions. She could see that the negro girl was worn out by fatigue, hunger and cold, and promptly began to make her comfortable, bringing a warm blanket from the little chamber off the kitchen, where Francis had formerly slept, and wrapping it about the girl, who, silent, and still inclined to be afraid, sat stiffly on the wooden kitchen chair near the stove. Berry had instantly slipped off her cap, jacket and mittens, and put on a long gingham apron, that at once changed her appearance from that of a slender, alert boy to a curly-headed little girl. And as the shivering Lily watched her new friend set a small dipper filled with milk on the stove, and hurry back to the pantry for bread which she proceeded to toast and liberally spread with butter, Lily’s face softened and she became sure that this wonderful little person, who had brought her to warmth and shelter and promised to protect her, was really a girl.

Lily ate ravenously. The hot milk and buttered toast disappeared so quickly that Berry hurried to the pantry for the remains of the partridge, left from dinner, and for more bread, and a new supply of milk, all of which the negro girl devoured.

“I ain’t et rael food fer days,” she whispered, looking up at Berry. “An’ I neve’ ’spected I’d hev a chanst ter eat agin.”

While Berry was providing food for this unexpected visitor, Mrs. Arnold had filled a big kettle with water and set it on the stove to heat. The door into Francis’s room was open, and Mrs. Arnold had placed a small tub there, and by the time Lily’s appetite was satisfied the water was ready and the tub filled. Taking soap and towels Mrs. Arnold told the negro girl to follow her, and the surprised Lily was soon after introduced to the first hot bath of her life. Then, clad in a warm flannel wrapper, she curled up on the cot bed and was fast asleep when Mrs. Arnold returned to the kitchen.

Berry told her mother the story of finding the fugitive slave girl hiding on the side of the ridge, and Mrs. Arnold listened with a grave face. “It was so cold, Mother, and she was so shivery and frightened, I had to bring her home. And you said that of course we must help anyone who needed help,” Berry pleaded, half afraid, by her mother’s serious face, that she did not approve of Berry’s having brought the negro girl home.

“Of course, Berry dear, you did exactly right. It has begun to snow again, and the poor creature would have perished if you had not brought her to shelter. She looks half-starved,” and Mrs. Arnold wondered to herself at the courage of this young slave girl who had started out in midwinter, facing the dangers of the forest, of hunger and cold, and of probable pursuit, capture and punishment, rather than remain a slave.

“But you look as if you wished I hadn’t, Mother!” said Berry.

“Do I?” and Mrs. Arnold smiled at Berry’s troubled expression. “Well, my dear, I was wondering what we can do with Lily. You know slaveholders always try to find a runaway negro, and if Lily’s owner comes after her and finds her here, he would have a right to take her. That is the law, and we could not prevent her going.”

“It’s a horrid law!” Berry declared, and her mother promptly agreed. “But, Mother, perhaps Lily’s master may not even try to find her, and then Lily can stay here,” the little girl continued hopefully, and Mrs. Arnold assented, saying:

“We will see what Father says when he comes in. Of course the girl must stay here for the present.”

Mr. Arnold had gone to the little clearing further down the ridge where stood the rough log shelter that he had built for the cow, and when he entered the cabin Berry and her mother were eager to tell him of Berry’s encounter with the negro girl, and that Berry had promised to befriend her, and had brought her home; and greatly to Berry’s delight, and to the relief of Mrs. Arnold, he did not appear to be greatly troubled by Lily’s presence in the cabin.

“We’ll find out more about her, when the girl is well rested. Very likely her owner won’t bother to look for her,” he said; “but I don’t know what we can do with her,” he added.

“Oh, Father! There are lots of things Lily could do,” Berry assured him eagerly, quite as if she had known the negro girl all her life, and Mr. and Mrs. Arnold smiled at their little daughter’s evident adoption of the fleeing Lily.

The wind, thrashing among the branches of the forest trees, and the cold rain that had followed the fall of snow, made the blazing fire in the Arnolds’ sitting-room seem even more pleasant than usual that evening, as Berry drew her small rocking-chair near the hearth. Berry’s thoughts were occupied with Lily: she was sure that Lily must have had wonderful adventures, and looked forward to hearing them. She had entirely forgotten Mollie’s “secret,” and was earnestly planning how Lily could be provided with clothing. While Berry’s thoughts were filled by this new adventure that had befallen her, Mr. and Mrs. Arnold were talking of the Union armies, and of the troops under General Ulysses S. Grant, a quiet, unostentatious officer, whose name was to be linked with the mightiest achievements of the Civil War.

“Grant’s soldiers are now on their first campaign, untrained and unused to war. But most of them are from the West, hardy and brave, and if Grant moves against Forts Henry and Donelson it will open the Cumberland and Tennessee Rivers, and carry forward the Union front of war two hundred miles,—for General Grant would have Foote’s fleet of iron-clads on the river to make victory sure,” declared Mr. Arnold.

“If the Tennessee is once opened there will be conflicts near Pittsburg Landing, at Corinth—perhaps even nearer to us than that,” responded Mrs. Arnold anxiously.

Mr. Arnold acknowledged that might be possible. “But, even so, we could not be in a safer place than in this mountain ravine. An army might march by on the Corinth road, or arrive at Pittsburg Landing, without troubling us. I am much more anxious about Berry’s adventures with these wanderers along the trails than I am about armies and battles coming to Shiloh,” he said, and at the sound of her own name Berry jumped up and ran to the big settle where her mother and father were sitting.

“What army, Father?” she asked.

“General Grant’s army of West Tennessee, and the Confederate army of Commander-in-Chief Albert S. Johnston,” replied her father. “Are you going to meet strange woodsmen or fleeing negroes every time you leave the house?” he added, smiling down at Berry’s serious face.

“I wish spring would come! I’m tired of winter,” said Berry.

“It won’t be long now,” her mother declared. “If the weather turns warm after this storm the catkins will begin to show on the alder bushes, the wild geese will come flying over, and spring will be close at hand. But it’s bedtime, Berry, dear, so say good-night and be off.”

“May I peek in and see if Lily is asleep?” asked Berry, and at her mother’s smiling nod the little girl ran to open the door into the little room where the negro girl slept in safety.

The Arnolds had finished breakfast the next morning before there was any sound in the adjoining chamber. Mrs. Arnold had selected some part-worn garments for the negro girl, and in a little while Lily appeared in the kitchen, a very different Lily from the ragged, frightened Lily that Berry had brought home. She was eager to help in the work of the cabin, and before the hour for lessons arrived Mrs. Arnold realized that Lily had been well trained as a house servant.

“Do not ask Lily any questions, Berry,” her mother cautioned. “Wait until she is ready to tell us her story,” and Berry, a little reluctantly, agreed, for she was eager to hear of Lily’s journey, and of her escape from slavery.

At ten o’clock the little bell tinkled warningly, and Berry hastened to the sitting-room.

“Mollie has not come,” she announced.

“We will have to plan extra studies for pupils who are late or absent,” said Mr. Arnold.

“Oh, Father! You said that just like a real teacher,” said Berry. “Are we not going to wait for Mollie?”

“No, indeed! You and I will read a while,” replied Mr. Arnold, opening a book on the table.

Berry looked at him questioningly. “But reading isn’t lessons, Father! It’s just fun,” she said, a little note of reproach in her voice.

“Listen to this, and then, when I finish, repeat as much of it as you can remember,” responded Mr. Arnold smilingly.

“‘Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies,
Let them live upon their praises;
Long as there’s a sun that sets,
Primroses will have their glory;
Long as there are violets,
They will have a place in story.
There’s a flower that shall be mine,
’Tis the modest celandine.’”

“Father! That’s not a lesson. I can say it all,” declared Berry, and indeed she could, so well had her memory been trained in this very way, repeat Wordsworth’s beautiful lines without a mistake. The lesson in algebra followed, and the morning hours of study ended without Mollie appearing.

“Probably she doesn’t want to come,” said Mr. Arnold.

But Berry and her mother were sure that was not the reason that kept Mollie away.

“May I go down and find out why she did not come?” asked Berry, as she sat down at the dinner table.

“No, I’m not willing for you to go down the trail to-day,” said Mrs. Arnold quickly. “Perhaps Mollie will appear this afternoon.”

“Perhaps she will,” agreed Berry hopefully; “and I guess she will be surprised to see Lily,” and she smiled at the silent Lily, who stood in one corner of the kitchen with her eyes fixed wonderingly upon her new friends.

CHAPTER VII
A SURPRISE

When the third day passed without Mollie appearing at the Arnolds’ cabin Mrs. Arnold gave Berry permission to go and find out the reason. There were not to be any lessons that morning, as Mr. Arnold had not been well for several days, and it was Lily who cared for the cow, brought the milk to the cabin, the wood from the shed, and did all the chores that Berry’s father usually did about the cabin.

“Isn’t it lucky I found Lily?” Berry asked soberly, as she made ready for her tramp over the ridge to the Braggs’ cabin.

“Lily is a great help,” Mrs. Arnold replied, but she did not tell Berry that the fact of having the fugitive slave girl in the house might prove a great danger to the Yankee household on the Tennessee mountain ridge.

“Do not say a word about Lily to Mollie or to Mr. and Mrs. Bragg,” Mrs. Arnold added, and Berry promised, thinking that whatever Mollie’s secret was it could not be more wonderful than the discovery of Lily.

“It’s like spring,” thought Berry as she strode along the leaf-covered path. “I smell it in the air.” For it was one of the days of late January when, among the ravines and valleys of the Tennessee mountains, spring seems close at hand. The sun shone warmly down, and wrens, nuthatches and cardinals flitted about the forest. “It won’t be long before the sap begins to run and we can make maple-sugar,” thought Berry. For there was a grove of sugar maples not two miles distant from the cabin, and Berry recalled the previous spring when she and her father had tapped the trees, boiled down the sap and made maple-sugar. “And that’s what we’ll do this year,” she decided happily, as she left the path for a moment to watch a scurrying partridge as it fluttered over the rough ground.

Berry had not gone far from home, however, before she was sure that she was being followed; that someone, keeping well out of sight behind trees and underbrush, was not far behind her; and she wondered if it might not be the man who, only a week earlier, had spoken to her at the brook crossing, and mistaken her for a boy; and at this thought Berry’s hand sought the silver whistle.

“But the whistle wouldn’t help to-day; Father is too ill to come,” she thought; “but it might frighten anyone who was hiding,” she decided. But Berry did not use the whistle. She was a fleet runner, and off she went at her best pace, sure that she could outrun any would-be pursuer. Nevertheless, by the breaking of twigs and the crashing noises in the undergrowth, the little girl knew that her unseen pursuer still kept her in view; and not until she reached the highway, along which she must go for a short distance before reaching the rough lane leading to the Braggs’ cabin, did she believe that she was at last out of reach of her pursuer.

“I’ll ask Mr. Bragg to go home with me,” Berry resolved as she hurried up the lane, for she recalled the stranger’s threats if she told of having seen him, and did not wish to encounter him again.

As Berry came in sight of Mollie’s home she noticed that there was no thread of smoke rising from the chimney of the cabin; it had a lonely and deserted look, but Berry did not stop to think of this. She was sure that in a moment the door would open wide, and Mollie, smiling with pleasure at the sight of her friend, would give her a warm welcome.

Berry rapped on the door, and then gave it a little push. But the door did not open, there was no response to her knock, and Berry now noticed that the cabin windows on each side of the door were evidently boarded up on the inside.

“They’ve gone away! And Mollie did not tell me!” she exclaimed aloud, with a sense of angry resentment against poor Mollie.

“That was her old secret! All the time I was making her doll, and her dress, and when she was pretending to want to come to school she knew she was going off,” thought Berry, tears of angry resentment and disappointment coming to her eyes.

It was to be many weeks before Berry was to hear the true story of the Braggs’ sudden disappearance, and learn that poor little Mollie had not been given time to tell her great secret, or to say good-bye to the friends who had given her such a happy birthday.

For a few moments Berry stood on the worn stone that formed the threshold to the dilapidated cabin, wondering where the Braggs had gone, and if they meant to return. The boarded windows made her feel sure that they had no intention of coming back, and, with a mournful sigh, Berry at last turned from the cabin and started on her tramp back through the forest.

Her thoughts were so filled by Mollie’s disappearance that she had entirely forgotten the possibility of again encountering the man who had called her “Berry Nees,” and not until she had left the main road and chanced to see a crouching figure lurking behind an old stump near the path did she realize that whoever it was that had followed her from home was still watching her every step.

Almost without thinking Berry drew the silver whistle from her pocket and its sharp call sounded clearly through the silence of the woodland path, and came echoing back as if repeated by a dozen whistles, and instantly the crouching figure sprang upright and leaped toward the little girl, exclaiming:

“Don’, Missie! Fer de lawd sakes, don’ blow no whissel!” and Berry found herself clasped tightly by the thin arms of Lily, who whispered fearfully:

“Yo’ don’ know w’at a whissel might fotch, Missie. ’Deed yo’ don’!” and her big, frightened eyes stared at Berry as if they were both facing some great peril.

Berry pulled herself angrily away from the girl’s clutching fingers.

“Was it you who followed me all the way from home?” she demanded.

“Yas, Missie,” came the faltering response.

“And you were hiding behind that stump to follow me home, I suppose?” she continued.

“Yas, Missie,” replied Lily in a whisper.

Berry was now feeling herself a much abused person. To have Mollie, her only friend and playmate, disappear without a word of explanation or good-bye had been a bitter experience; to have felt herself pursued all along the forest trail by a possible enemy, and now to discover that she had been needlessly afraid because of this stupid negro girl, made her angry and resentful. Berry did not stop to ask why Lily had followed her, or to remember that the girl was still afraid of every sound, and felt herself safe only when near to the little girl who had befriended her, and angry words rushed to her lips.

“Don’t you dare follow me another step! I don’t want to see you again, ever!” she declared, and without another glance at the cowering figure, Berry hurried on up the trail. She no longer noticed the calls of the forest birds, or the sunshine that sent flickering shadows across the woodland path. Mollie was gone, she was sure she would never see her again, and that stupid negro girl had made her run all that distance down the ridge as if pursued by a mountain lion, she thought resentfully.

“I wish Francis was home,” she half sobbed, as she drew near the cabin. “Everything was all right when he was here. I hate war!” For Berry realized that it was the war that had taken her brother from home to unknown perils and to certain danger, and left her alone with her mother and father in the cabin, remote from friends.

She ran into the kitchen and, almost ready to cry, exclaimed:

“Mother! Mother! Mollie’s gone! The Braggs are all gone, and the cabin fastened up! And Mollie never let us know!”

“Perhaps Mollie did not have a chance, my dear,” said Mrs. Arnold quietly. “I am sure she would have told us if she could. But the Braggs are not the only ones who have disappeared. Lily has run away from us. She disappeared just after you left the cabin. I don’t understand her going, for she seemed to think herself safe with us.”

Berry stood silent for a moment, and then said slowly, “Lily will come back. Of course she will.”

“I hope she will; she was a great help; if your father has to stay indoors for a time I do not know how we will manage without her help,” rejoined Mrs. Arnold.

Berry stepped back to the porch and looked anxiously down the path, but there was no sign of Lily.

“Come in, dear; it is no use to look for her. Something must have frightened her, and so she has started off, or else she is dishonest and ungrateful,” said Mrs. Arnold.

When Berry told her father of the disappearance of the entire Bragg family, he declared that he was not surprised.

“Very likely Steve Bragg has heard that Commodore Foote’s gunboats are ready to come up the Tennessee, and that General Grant is preparing to advance upon the river forts, or that the Confederate forces may move toward Corinth. For Bragg is as much afraid of one army as of the other, and he has probably taken his family to some place farther from the river, and from the road to Corinth,” he said, adding, “Poor little Mollie; her one day at school is likely to be her last.”