Miss Sylvy,” asked Joe, rather solemnly, “would you be so kin’ as ter tell me whar you hail from?”

“Do you mean where I was born?” Joe nodded. “Well, I’m very sorry, but I can’t tell you,” and the colour surged perceptibly under her dark skin.

“H’m,” said Joe, pressing his lower lip over the upper one, as he had a habit of doing when he considered any matter required careful thought. Then after a pause, “Well, your las’ name, Miss Sylvy, will you tell me dat? I don’ rightly remember eber to have heard it.”

“Sylvester, Joe, but it’s a name I chose for myself. I do not know what name I was born to.”

“Why, however, Miss Sylvy, did dat happen?” and Joe showed such deep and tender interest that Sylvia, who cared to talk on the subject with very few, gladly entered into a full explanation. She told him, as she had told Courage that summer night so many years before on Larry’s lighter, how she had found herself landed in the orphan asylum, with no name as far as any one knew, excepting just Sylvia, and how she had named herself Sylvester after one of the ladies who came to the asylum to teach. And then she continued, giving a brief outline of her life since that time, all of which proved most absorbing to Joe, because with the telling of Sylvia’s story he learnt so much of interest about Miss Courage as well.

“But, Honey,” he asked at the end of the story, with a sigh as of one who has listened with an intentness bordering upon fatigue, “who put you in dat ’sylum?”

“Some one just left me at the asylum at night, with a card pinned on to my dress with ‘Sylvia’ written on it, and saying that I had neither father nor mother, and then ran away in the darkness, but I don’t believe any one related to me would have treated me like that. I would rather you would not say anything about all this, Joe. It is only because you are one of my own people and seem so kind and interested that I have told you.”

“Thank you bery much for de confidence, Miss Sylvy, for my ole heart went right out to you from de day you done come walkin’ up de path at Little Homespun, but I’ll keep it safe, Miss Sylvy, never you fear.”

Joe and Sylvia had been busy washing dishes and clearing up after the luncheon, and it was when their work was finished and they were waiting under the chestnut tree for the others to come back, that they had had their little talk. It reached its natural conclusion just as Colonel Anderson came strolling up from the river, blowing a shrill whistle between two fingers, the signal previously agreed upon to call the children together.

“Now, do you know,” he said, when the little company had bestowed itself in much the same fashion as in the morning, “I have an idea that you will have to let Joe and me do all the talking now. We have only a short afternoon before us, and there is a great deal to tell.”

No one looked as though that would be the least hardship, and Joe explained that he himself would rather listen than talk, “less’n de. Colonel disremembered somethin’ very important.”

“Likely as not I shall, Joe, but it seems the point at which to commence this afternoon is with General Lee. At the time that he married Miss Mollie Custis he was a lieutenant in the United States Army, but he had graduated at the head of his class at West Point only two years before. After he was married, as you know, he made his home at Arlington, but he had to be away from it much of the time because of his duties in the army. He was a fine fellow, I can tell you, and held one responsible position after another. He was right in the thick of our war with Mexico, and won rapid promotion for his courage and daring. After a brilliant charge at Chapultepec, when he was severely wounded, he was made a brevet-colonel by General Scott. It seemed after that as though he was everywhere where a brave, fearless man was needed. He was in command in Texas when the Indians were attacking the settlers there; and was in many a bloody engagement. Later on, he was the commanding officer when the house was charged at Harper’s Ferry, where John Brown had taken refuge. I wish there was time, children, to stop and tell you about John Brown. You know the old song about ‘John Brown’s body lies a mouldering in the grave, but his soul goes marching on.’ Get Joe here to sing it for you some day, if you don’t. Well, you see by all this that General Lee had done a great deal for his country; but there came a day when he felt it his duty to turn against it, that is, to take up arms against the United States. You all know how the great civil war finally came about; how the Northern States thought the Southern States should not hold slaves, and how the Southern States thought they had the right to decide whether they should or not without any interference from the North, and so banded themselves together and said they would secede from the United States and form a confederacy of their own. This Virginia, whose air we are breathing this minute, was one of those states, and was General Lee’s native state as well; and when the time came to choose between his state and his country, he decided to side with the Confederacy. Then, of course, there was nothing for him to do but to resign from the United States Army. He sent his letter of resignation to General Scott on the twenty-second of April, 1861, and then at once left Arlington with his wife and children, for it was quite too near to Washington for him to stay now that he had taken a stand against the Government, and the very next day he was made commander-in-chief of the army in Virginia. A few days before this, that is, on the fifteenth of April, President Lincoln had called for seventy-five thousand volunteers, and three days after the Lees had left, the great army of the North came pouring into Washington and all the country round about. Camp-fires crackled among the oaks at Arlington, and the house itself was taken possession of by the officers, When the troops first arrived at Arlington they tramped through the deserted rooms, remaining just as the Lees had left them, and concluding that ‘all’s fair in love and war,’ they simply helped themselves to the forsaken treasures.

“Oh, but dose were drefful days!” said Joe, as though he must give vent to the thoughts Colonel Anderson’s words had stirred: “I neber can forgive dose Union soldiers, neber. Seems as dough dey might done have respect for a gentleman’s place, but not a bit of it. Seemed as dough dey could not be spiteful ‘nuff ’gainst de General. Des fancy seein’ things dat had belonged to Washington himself carried out of de house, and sol’ in de streets up dere in de city of Washington, and some of de negroes—shame on ’em!—ran away with things an’ sol’ ’em for more money dan dey themselves would have sol’ for ’fo’ de wah. Oh, it was pitiful to see the flower beds and lawns tramped over, as dough dey had been so much rubbish, and it wa’n’t long befo’ de smooth green terraces were just ragged mud-banks. You’d have thought I’d have gone away, wouldn’t you? But I couldn’t bring myself to leave de ole place, until I ’listed an’ went down to Alabama wid a coloured regiment. Dere, Colonel, I done interrupt you, didn’t I? But really, I was des thinkin’ aloud more dan talkin’, for I des can’t keep my thoughts to myself, when I grows ’stracted over de troublousness of dose times.”

“I don’t blame you, Joe, I don’t blame you,” said Colonel Anderson; “but, as for me, I was feeling pretty hot against General Lee those days. I didn’t see how he could make up his mind to regularly take up arms against his country, and I have an idea that I felt for awhile that he was treated no worse than he deserved; but that’s all bygones now, as well as the dear old Arlington home, that will never be a home again. You see, almost at the commencement of the war, children, Washington, with all the country immediately about, became the hospital centre, and soon a surgeon’s staff was quartered in the house yonder, in addition to the officers already there; and at the same time long canvas shelters were constructed in those woods, to which the poor sick and wounded soldiers were brought from camp and battlefield—and sadly enough many of them died here. At first all who died were taken to the Soldiers’ Home Cemetery on the other side of Washington to be buried, but the day came, as you know, when this very place was turned into a cemetery, and this was how it came about. One afternoon as President Lincoln was starting for his usual drive, which seemed to be the only way by which he could gain any relief from the burdens of that anxious time, he met General Meigs (who was Quarter-master General then of the United States Army) walking in the White House grounds. Noticing how tired and worn out the General looked, the President invited him to drive with him, and General Meigs accepted. It was the President’s purpose to drive out to Arlington, and when they reached there, the President started off for a quiet stroll; but General Meigs, whose thoughts were very busy just then as to what should be done with the poor soldiers, dying in such numbers in and about Washington, was soon deep in conference with the surgeons in charge. You see there would soon have been no more room in other cemeteries, and it was for the Quarter-master General to decide what was to be done in the matter. Now they say that General Meigs indulged in very bitter feelings toward his old friend General Lee, and that when he rejoined the President he said, ‘Lee shall never return to Arlington, no matter what the issue of the war may be,’ feeling evidently that he should be fully punished in any case for the stand he had taken. Just at that moment a sad little procession came that way. The bodies of several poor fellows, who had died in the hospital tents, were being carried on canvas stretchers to a spot from whence they could be taken to the Soldiers’ Home Cemetery.

“‘How many men are awaiting burial?’ asked General Meigs of the Sergeant in charge of the squad.

“‘Altogether a dozen, sir,’ the Sergeant answered.

“‘Bury them there,’ ordered the General, pointing to a low terrace bordering the garden.”

“But did General Meigs have any right to turn General Lee’s place into a cemetery?” asked Courage, a little warmly, feeling that an interruption was excusable under the circumstances. To be fair always, if possible, to everybody, was a working principle with Courage, and this proceeding of General Meigs’s did not seem to her quite fair.

“Yes, I think he had a perfect right, Miss Courage. In time of war the Government certainly has a right to take possession, if necessary, of property belonging to any one in open rebellion against it; and besides, five months before Arlington was converted into a cemetery, the place had been put up at public sale and bought by the Government. It was not, I believe, until 1873, however, that the Lees received any money for the estate, and that I admit does not seem fair at all. And there is another right of which I am certain, and that is that the brave fellows whose bodies rest in these graves had a right to the most beautiful spot anywhere in these United States of ours for their last resting-place. No, I think it was fitting that Arlington should become one of our national cemeteries, and I believe even Joe yonder, thinks so too.”

“Yes I do, Colonel Anderson,” Joe answered, solemnly. “Much as I love General Lee, I can’t forget what de war cos’ de country in de loss of human life, and General Lee done took a great ’sponsibility ’pon him, when he help de war on by takin’ command of de Southern troops. Yes, I’m glad dat de fine ole place has been pressed into de service of de country, in des de way it has been.”

Colonel Anderson’s question put to Joe and Joe’s reply seemed to loosen the tongues of the little company. Almost every one from Brevet up had some question or other to ask of the Colonel, and he was quite willing that they should, for they had all listened so attentively that the story had been told more quickly than either Joe or the Colonel had thought possible.

“And now, children,” said Brevet, with the air of a little grandfather, “do you wonder that I love to come and spend the day with Joe? Why, there isn’t a minute when I’m here, that he isn’t telling me something ‘bout before the war, or since the war, and when we go back to the cabin and Joe makes the hoe-cake and broils a chicken for luncheon, and I get the china down from the cupboard and set the table, with both of us talking most interesting all the time, and the smell of the cooking just filling all the cabin,—well, there isn’t ever such a happy time, is there, Joe?” Brevet had made his way to Joe’s side as he spoke, and reaching up, put one chubby little arm around his neck.

“No, bless yo’ little white heart, dere never is quite such a happy time!” and Joe drew the little fellow into his lap and held him close, as though he would love to keep him there forever.

“Is being in the cabin and having Joe cook the hoe-cake and the chicken nicer than having luncheon out here in the grass like this?” asked Allan Bennett, a whole world of envy in his tone.

"A heap nicer,” was Brevet’s not uncertain reply.

“Do you really t’ink so, Honey?” asked Joe, smiling from ear to ear. “Well, den, all you little Bennetts is invited on de spot, to take Fo’th of July dinner wid me in my cabin, an’ if Miss Courage will honour me wid her presence, an’ de Colonel will come out from Washington, an’ Miss Sylvy will lend me a hand wid de preparations, strikes me we might hab a good time sure nuff.”

Everybody accepted Joe’s invitation with alacrity, and there could not have been a happier ending to a perfect day than to have just such another perfect day planned for at its close. It simply took all the bitterness out of the parting that followed soon after.

“Miss Lindy,” whispered Joe importantly, as he helped Grandma Ellis into the carriage, “I ’spects you and Mars Harry for de Fo’th of July dinner, but as dere won’t be no room for Mammy I didn’t make no public mention of your two names. Seemed as dough it might make her feel a bit uncomfortable if she was de only one not mentioned; but you understan’, Miss Lindy, de cabin am small an’ Mammy large, an’” (putting his hand to his mouth and speaking in a still lower whisper) “seems like Mammy gettin’ too old to be of much use to anybody. You un’erstan’, Miss Lindy?”

“Oh, yes, I understand perfectly,” Grandma Ellis answered, very much amused, “and I’ll make it all right with Mammy.” But from Grandma Ellis’s point of view Mammy did not seem to be growing old one whit more rapidly than old Joe himself.