A spur gleamed on his boot heel, for he had just returned from his morning ride, and his right sleeve hung empty.
He had won his title bravely.

He had given his only son and his strong right arm to the Southern cause.

That had been nearly thirty years ago.
He did not charge down on the enemy with his usual force this time.

The little head, gleaming like sunshine in the strawberry patch, reminded him so strongly of a little fellow who used to follow him everywhere,--Tom, the sturdiest, handsomest boy in the county,--Tom, whom he had been so proud of, whom he had so nearly worshipped.
Looking at this fair head bent over the vines, he could almost forget that Tom had ever outgrown his babyhood, that he had shouldered a rifle and followed him to camp, a mere boy, to be shot down by a Yankee bullet in his first battle.
The old Colonel could almost believe he had him back again, and that he stood in the midst of those old days the locusts sometimes whispered about.
He could not hear the happiest of little voices that was just then saying, "Oh, Fritz, isn't you glad we came?
An' isn't you glad we've got a gran'fathah with such good 'trawberries ?" It was hard for her to put the "s" before her consonants.
As the Colonel came nearer she tossed another berry into the dog's mouth.

A twig snapped, and she raised a startled face toward him.
"Suh ?" she said, timidly, for it seemed to her that the stern, piercing eyes had spoken.
"What are you doing here, child ?" he asked, in a voice so much kinder than his eyes that she regained her usual self-possession at once.
"Eatin' 'trawberries," she answered, coolly.
"Who are you, anyway ?" he exclaimed, much puzzled.