He did not tell of the racking pain in his weary legs, nor the protest of his pounding heart--the strain--the agony--the puffs of smoke that floated above the pines, and the ping of bullets whining through the trees.

He did not tell of the ball that slid along his ribs, leaving a fiery, aching memory behind, as the man crashed down a clay bank, to lie for an instant in a crumpled heap, to rise and stumble on--not toward the haven of his own Confederate lines, but forward, to where a baby waited--through a dancing mist of red.
And so the soldier made his poor apology, turning his head away to avoid a dreaded look in Virgie's big, reproachful eyes; then he added one more lashwelt to his shame: "And now your poor old daddy is no more use to you.

I come to my little girl with empty hands--with an empty gun--and an empty heart!" He said it bitterly, in the self-accusing sorrow of his soul; and his courage, which had borne him through a hell of suffering, now broke; but only when a helper of the helpless failed.

He laid his outflung arms across the table.

He bowed his beaten head upon them and sobbed aloud, with sobs that shook him to his heels.
It was then that Virgie came to him again, a little daughter of the South, who, like a hundred thousand of her sisters, brought comfort in the blackest hours.
One tiny, weak arm was slipped about his neck.