"Celia! ... And I-I didn't think you liked that word."
"What word, Honey-bell?" very demurely.
"Rebel!"
"Why, I reckon George Washington wore that title without reproach. It's a ve'y good title-rebel," she added serenely. "I admire it enough to wear it myse'f."
Quarters were found for Mrs. Craig. Letty shyly offered to move, but Celia wouldn't have it.
"My dear child," she said, "I'm just a useless encumbrance 'round the house; give me a corner where I may sit and look on and-he'p everybody by not inte'fering."
Her corner was an adjoining section of the garret, boarded up, wall-papered, and furnished for those who visited the Farm Hospital on tour of inspection or to see some sick friend or relative, or escort some haggard convalescent to the Northern home.
Celia had brought a whole trunkful of fresh gingham clothes and aprons, and Ailsa could not discover exactly why, until, on the day following her arrival, she found Celia sitting beside the cot of a wounded Louisiana Tiger, administering lemonade.
"Dearest," whispered Ailsa that night, "it is very sweet of you to care for your own people here. We make no distinction, however, between Union and Confederate sick; so, dear, you must be very careful not to express any-sentiments."
Celia laughed. "I won't express any sentiments, Honey-bee. I reckon I'd be drummed out of the Yankee army." Then, graver: "If I'm bitter-I'll keep it to myse'f."
"I know, dear... . And-your sympathies would never lead you-permit you to any-indiscretion."
"You mean in talking-ahem!-treason-to sick Confederates? I don't have to, dear."
"And... you must never mention anything concerning what you see inside our lines. You understand that, of course, don't you, darling?"
"I hadn't thought about it," said Celia musingly.
Ailsa added vaguely: "There's always a government detective hanging around the hospital."
Celia nodded and gazed out of the open window. Very far away the purple top of a hill peeped above the forest. Ailsa had told her that a Confederate battery was there. And now she looked at it in silence, her blue eyes very soft, her lips resting upon one another in tender, troubled curves.
Somewhere on that hazy hill-top a new flag was flying; soldiers of a new nation were guarding it, unseen by her. It was the first outpost of her own people that she had ever seen; and she looked at it wistfully, proudly, her soul in her eyes. All the pain, all the solicitude, all the anguish of a Southern woman, and a wife of a Northern man, who had borne him Northern children deepened in her gaze, till her eyes dimmed and her lids quivered and closed; and Ailsa's arms tightened around her.
"It is ve'y hard, Honey-bud," was all she said.
She had Dr. West's permission to read to the sick, mend their clothing, write letters for them, and perform such little offices as did not require the judgment of trained nurses.
By preference she devoted herself to the Confederate sick, but she was very sweet and gentle with all, ready to do anything any sick man asked; and she prayed in her heart that if her husband and her son were ever in need of such aid. God would send, in mercy, some woman to them, and not let them lie helpless in the clumsy hands of men.
She had only one really disagreeable experience. Early in March a government detective sent word that he wished to speak to her; and she went down to Dr. West's office, where a red-faced, burly man sat smoking a very black cigar. He did not rise as she entered; and, surprised, she halted at the doorway.
"Are you Mrs. Craig?" he demanded, keeping his seat, his hat, and the cigar between his teeth.
"Are you a government detective?"
"Yes, I am."
"Then stand up when you speak to me!" she said sharply. "I reckon a Yankee nigger has mo' manners than you display."
And the astonished detective presently found himself, hat in hand, cigar discarded, standing while Mrs. Craig, seated, replied indifferently to his very mild questions.
"Are you a Southerner, Mrs. Craig?"
"I am."
"Your husband is Colonel Estcourt Craig, 3rd New York Zouaves?"
"He is."
"You have a son serving in that regiment?"
"Yes."
"Private soldier?"
"Yes."
"You are not a volunteer nurse?"
"No."
"Your sister-in-law, Mrs. Paige, is?"
"Yes."
"Now, Mrs. Craig"-but he could not succeed in swaggering, with her calm, contemptuous eyes taking his measure-"now, Mrs. Craig, is it true that you own, a mansion called Paigecourt near Richmond?"
"I do."
"It was your father's house?"
"It was my father's home befo' he was married."
"Oh. Who owns your father's house-the one he lived in after he was married?"
"Mrs. Paige."
"She is your sister-in-law? Your brother inherited this house?
And it is called Marye Mead, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"It is not occupied?"
"No."
"Is Paigecourt-your own house-ah-occupied?"
"It is."