A shout went up, deep, joyous and uncontrolled, its echoes pulsing out across the hot, red fields till it reached the distant camp; and Grant looked up from a war map's crisscross lines, grunted, and lit a fresh cigar.
And Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison sat his horse before his cheering line of men, silent, happy, while two tears rolled, unheeded, down his cheek--a soldier and a man! His tenderness to a little child had torn him from his saddle and doomed him to disgrace and death; and then, one line from her baby lips had mounted him again and set him before his troopers on parade.
"_It was when ...

Daddy came through the woods ...

and put my mamma ...
in the ground_." Two lives she had held--in her little hands--and had saved them both with a dozen words of simple, unfaltering truth.
* * * * * On the dusty pike which led to Virginia's capital another rider plodded through the heat and haze.

His coat, once gray, now hung in mud-stained tatters about his form, but beneath his battered campaign hat his thin, pale features were smoothed by a smile of happiness.
Behind his saddle, one hand gripped tightly in a rent in the soiled gray coat, sat still another Rebel--the smallest of them all--her tiny legs stretched out almost straight on the horse's wide, fat back.
"Daddy--how far is it to Richmon' now ?" The rider turned his head and pointed north.
"It's close now, honey.

See that line of hills?
That's Richmond.