"Who are you for?" piped out a weak little voice.
"I'm no soldier," said Steadfast. "Come out, I'll take you home by-
and-by."
"I have no home!" was the answer. "I want father."
Steadfast was now under the tree, and could see that it was a little
girl who was sheltering there of about the same size as Rusha. He
tried to take her hand, but she backed against the tree, and he
repeated "Come along, I wouldn't hurt you for the world. Who is your
father? Where shall we find him?"
"My father is Serjeant Gaythorn of Sir Harry Blythedale's troopers,"
said the child, somewhat proudly, then starting again, "You are not a
rebel, are you?"
"No, I am a country lad," said Steadfast; "I want to help you. Come,
you can't stay here."
For the little hand she had yielded to him was cold and damp with the
September dews. His touch seemed to give her confidence, and when he
asked, "Can't I take you to your mother?" she answered--
"Mother's dead! The rascal Roundheads shot her over at Naseby."
"Poor child! poor child!" said Steadfast.
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