"There is no other way," said Sally, coolly. "If a rat comes
in your way, you must shoot him. I knew it had got to come. I
have heard my uncle talk enough about that."
"But what will be the end of it?" said another.
"Pooh! it will end like smoke. The Yankees do not like
fighting — they would rather be excused if you please. Their
_forte_ is quite in another line — out of the way of powder."
I wondered if that was true. I thought of Thorold, and of
Major Blunt. I was troubled; and when I went to see Miss
Cardigan, next day, I found she could give me little comfort.
"I don't know, my dear," she said, "what they may be left to
do. They're just daft down there; clean daft."
"If they fight, we shall be obliged to fight," I said, not
liking to ask her about Northern courage; and, indeed, she was
a Scotswoman, and what should she know?
"Ay, just that," she replied; "and fighting between the two
parts of one land is even the worst fighting there can be.
Pray it may not come, Daisy; but those people are just daft.
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