"
His chin fell on his chest. A dry sob burst from him.
"I wish now I had been killed with the rest of 'em."
"Have you got a mother?" Roberta asked.
"Yes, I've got a mother; but what will she say when I tell her I left Bert
lying yonder in that death-trap? That's what's the matter. I wanted to
find Bert and take him away with me. I hunted for him all along among
those trees, and I got cut off from our boys. I think I must have lost my
head, for I forgot which way they went."
"Who is Bert?" asked Roberta.
"Bert was my brother, and the best boy that ever lived. Curse them!" he
cried, shaking his clenched fist; "curse the Yankees. What right have they
on Kentucky soil, anyhow?"
"O, don't curse them," said the child; "my papa is a Yankee."
"Is he?" He stopped short and looked at her with a kind of pity. "I am
sorry for you, that's all; sorry from my heart. I'd rather be a negro
trader."
"I'm sorry too," said Roberta. There was a droop about the corners of her
mouth. "But don't you worry about your brother. Mam' Sarah and me will
find him and do all we can for him."
"Will you?" said the hoy eagerly; "will you, really? O! that will be too
kind for any thing.
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