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Roxy stopped and looked at Dulcie with so sober an expression that the stout negro woman became alarmed.

“Wha’s de matter?” she demanded. “You look’s if you’d seen a ghos’! Wha’s happen’ to you, missie?”

“Nothing!” Roxy replied sharply. “I thought you were taking a nap, Dulcie.”

Dulcie chuckled and nodded her turbaned head.

“Dat’s so! Dat’s w’ot I plan ter do dis minit. I’se jes’ on de way!” and with another nod she ambled down the path toward her own cabin, and Roxy entered the kitchen.

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There was not a sound in the quiet kitchen as Roxy entered. For a moment the little girl stood still, listening intently, but the house itself seemed to be taking a nap in the mid-afternoon quiet of the June day.

“Mother and Grandma will be in their rooms now,” thought Roxy; “they won’t expect me home before the last of the afternoon. I’ll have plenty of time,” and she tiptoed across the well-scrubbed floor toward the pantry. Before she tried the door she again looked about the room cautiously, remembering her promise to the half-starved man who had trusted her, and fearful that someone might enter the kitchen before she could secure food and escape. Roxy knew that if her mother heard her Mrs. Delfield would at once want to know why she had not gone to Sharpsburg with Polly Lawrence, and even in the excitement of seeing the Confederate soldiers, and of discovering the runaway, Roxy had resolved not to mention her disagreement with Polly. Already she felt a little ashamed, since the soldier had said her father would be proud to be called a Yankee, that she had been so ready to be angry at Polly.