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scornfully at his cousin. “If men had the right to decide whether or not to fight when their country’s at war, there wouldn’t be any armies,” he said.
    Meg met his gaze. “I know of two armies we’d both have been a lot better off without,” she said. Then she turned and walked back to the house, her head held high.
    Will muttered an oath he’d learned from a young officer who had been quartered in their house one of the times Winchesterwas in Confederate hands. Then he scooped up an armload of kindling and headed for the summer kitchen.
----
    Will was glad when the evening meal was over, even though he was still hungry. He knew he was stretching the family’s meager food supply, and he was ill at ease in spite of his aunt’s attempts to make him feel welcome.
    He excused himself and climbed the stairs to his attic room. First he put his clothes in the chest and arranged the family Bible, his copybook with its few precious blank sheets, and his pen and ink bottle on the table under the window. Trying not to think about an autumn without school, he slipped his slate into the chest and tucked it under his clothes.
    Will hesitated a moment, holding his small package of family photographs. Then, resolutely, he put them with his slate at the bottom of the chest. That done, he found a nail in the wall where he could hang his father’s saber and the pouch of uniform buttons he’d collected from the battlefields and army camps near town. Then he threw himself across the bed.
    He felt at ease with Aunt Ella and he guessed he’d learn to get along with Meg. Already they seemed almost like family, probably because they reminded him of Mama and Betsy. But he knew he’d never feel comfortable around his uncle. Imagine the son of a Confederate cavalry officer having to accept charity from such a man! He’d be courteous, and he’d help out all he could to make up for being an extra mouth to feed. But he’d never call him Uncle Jed. Never!
    With that decided, Will flopped over on his stomach and fell into an exhausted sleep.

TWO
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    Will woke early and slipped downstairs and out onto the porch. Uncle Jed was coming back from the spring with two buckets of water. He set one inside the door of the summer kitchen and carried the other to the porch, where he filled a dishpan and began to wash his face. Will thought wistfully of the pitcher of hot water Lizzy had brought to his room each morning and poured into the porcelain bowl that stood on the small marble-topped table. He gave a start when his uncle turned to him and spoke.
    â€œNot much reason to get up this early nowadays, with no stock to feed and water. But old habits die hard.” He dried his hands and went on. “I didn’t take sides in that there rebellion, but I’ll be doggoned if both sides didn’t take me! It’ll be a long time before this place recovers from the war.”
    â€œIt’ll be a long time before Virginia recovers!” Will said.
    The man nodded. “You’ve seen more of that than I have,” he agreed, “coming through the Valley like you did on your way here.”
    It was Will’s turn to nod as he thought of the spoiled fields and the blackened squares of earth where barns once stood, and of the occasional skeletal chimney rising from the charred ruins of a home.
    â€œI saw you chopped some kindling for your aunt. Why don’t you go on over and make the fire so she can start breakfast?”
    Will headed for the kitchen, glad for an excuse to end the conversation.
----
    Breakfast that morning was a thin gruel that didn’t taste like anything Will had ever eaten.
    â€œIt’s made from the buckwheat the Yankees didn’t get,” Meg said. “Their foragers never found where Ma hid it.” She grinned at Will from across the table. “Ma put pillow slips on six sacks of grain and set them right on top of the feather pillows