Dorothea awoke next morning to find Harriot creeping into her bed.

“Good morning,” she murmured, opening one sleepy eye.

“I hoped I wouldn’t wake you,” said Harriot briskly, “but, now that you are awake, we might just as well talk. I wanted to get you first to-day before the others. You’re going to be mighty popular, I can see that, and you’re my cousin just as much as you are April’s.”

She was under the covers by this time and snuggled down with a series of comfortable wiggles.

The mention of April brought back to Dorothea’s mind the last glimpse she had had of her beautiful cousin the night before, and the events leading up to it.

“I wonder if they caught that poor man,” she said, all sleep gone from her eyes by this time.

“Oh, I don’t know. I hope not, though you mustn’t say so to April,” Harriot answered. “She’s so patriotic and loyal that it hurts her. I hope I’ll never have any love affairs.”

“What do you mean by that?” demanded Dorothea.

“I’m thinking of April,” Harriot went on. “She used to be the nicest, sweetest girl you ever knew and now—she’s a perfect idiot. Yes, she is, a perfect idiot. You just be warned by April and never have a love affair if you can help it.”

“But perhaps you can’t help it,” Dorothea suggested with a smile.

“Well, I mean to,” Harriot insisted. “I shall never fall in love. I’ve had my warning. It’s awful! And I like Lee Hendon, too; even if he is a coward—though some people say he isn’t at all.”

“Who is he? Tell me about him, won’t you?” asked Dorothea, thinking perhaps to find an explanation of April’s actions.

“There isn’t much to tell,” Harriot replied. “April’s so terribly pretty that of course she’s had lots and lots of beaux, and I don’t think any one noticed much about Lee Hendon—at least I didn’t, ’cause he’s been like a brother to us all his life and—well, when all the fuss came, there just couldn’t be any other explanation except that April liked him better than the others.”

“What fuss?” asked Dorothea.

“Because he didn’t enlist when the war broke out,” Harriot explained.

“Is he an Abolitionist?” Dorothea questioned.

“Oh, my, no! It would be almost better if he were. That would be a good reason for the way he’s acting—not just ’cause he’s afraid, as ’most everybody says. No, it isn’t because he’s an Abolitionist. He and his mother have three plantations and lots and lots of servants. At first, you know, a man who had twenty slaves didn’t have to enlist—though of course gentlemen didn’t wait to be made. My father and Hal went, right off; and so did ’most every one else. Then after a while the news went ’round that Lee Hendon hadn’t gone and wasn’t going. Oh, there was a lot of talk, and he sort of kept away as much as he could, till finally the girls sent him a Secession bonnet and a crinoline and skirt.”

“And then what did he do?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Harriot answered. “Nothing, I reckon. But Dr. Hardesty told everybody that it was Lee’s mother who kept him at home. That she was mighty sick and if he went away she’d surely die. The doctor said we ought to admire Lee for not deserting his mother.”

“I should have thought that would have satisfied April,” Dorothea suggested.

“Nothing would satisfy her except that he should go and fight,” answered Harriot. “But he wouldn’t, and we heard he had paid a substitute three hundred dollars. That was the last straw. It’s that sort of thing makes people say this is a ‘Rich man’s war but a poor man’s fight,’ and April cut him, on the steps of the church one Sunday morning, and she hasn’t spoken of him since. All the same she keeps thinking about him, or else why is she so queer?”

“I didn’t think she was queer,” Dorothea remarked after a moment’s pause.

“That’s because you don’t know how she used to be,” Harriot replied. “Before, she used to laugh all the time and—oh, I don’t know, but she wasn’t so dreadfully grown-up and we had lots of fun together. Now she acts just like she loved going to Mothers’ Meetings and sewing and all that kind of thing. You wouldn’t understand, ’cause you didn’t know her before, but I tell you she’s mighty changed.”

As if she had exhausted the topic of conversation Harriot snuggled down further under the covers and the first thing Dorothea knew her young cousin was fast asleep. Soon Dorothea herself drifted off into another nap, to be aroused a little later by hearing a soft puffing sound and a low-voiced humming in the room.

She lifted her head and there, before the fire, blowing it gently, was Lucy, her maid, singing softly to herself.

The verse finished, the colored girl turned her head and met Dorothea’s glance, whereupon she smiled broadly and getting to her feet came to the side of the bed. Dorothea’s sleepy eyes opened wide as she caught sight of a band of cheap red ribbon tying back Lucy’s frizzy hair.

“Does my little missy want I shall bring her she’s breakfus’ in baid?” the smiling maid asked. “I’ve been wrastlin’ with that pesky fire, tryin’ to kindle it without wakin’ you-all, but I ’spects that wood done come from a tree what was lightnin’ struck, it ac’ so contrary.”

“Don’t wake Miss Harriot,” Dorothea cautioned in a whisper.

“Nothin’ don’t wake Miss Harry till she’s ready to be woked,” Lucy assured her. “Her old mammy always done said she was the sleepin’est and the eatin’est baby she ever set her two eyes on—and Miss Harry ain’t outgrow it none.”

“But hadn’t I better go down to breakfast with my aunt?” Dorothea asked.

“Land sakes, honey,” Lucy replied with a wide grin. “Ol’ Miss had she’s breakfus’ hours and hours ago. She don’t spressify what you must do. But ev’ybody pleases they’ se’f heah, and that please Ol’ Miss.”

And then Harriot suddenly woke up. To Dorothea’s mind she did this, not like a person rousing from a deep sleep, but rather like a wax doll whose eyes come open with a snap and who is suddenly wide awake.

Something of this she expressed to Harriot, who seemed rather annoyed thereby.

“I don’t see anything in that to make a fuss about,” she said, with a pout. “When I’m done sleeping, I’m done, and so I stop. When you’ve done eating no one expects you to go on chewing for an hour, do they? Now I want breakfast right away. We’ve lots to do this morning.”

Lucy was at once dispatched for plenty of food for two, and then Dorothea inquired what was the pressing business a-foot.

“First thing, I must show you to my Cousin Corinne,” Harriot explained. “You’ll be a terrible disappointment to her. She thinks she’s the only cousin I have handy, and she’s always bragging to me about the Polks and the Morgans, who are kin to her but not to me. So I want you to put on a very pretty dress and I’ll make Uncle Jastrow harness up and drive us over there in style, just like you were too proud to walk.”

At this juncture the breakfast arrived and as Lucy set the tray upon the bed she implored the girls to be careful and not spill the salt.

“Is it so precious?” asked Dorothea.

“No, missy, ’tain’t that,” Lucy explained, “but land sakes, honey, it’s most powerful bad luck.”

Dorothea laughed.

“I don’t believe in bad luck,” she insisted, at which Lucy threw up her hands in horror.

Even in this time of scarcity Aunt Decent had sent up food enough for three or four girls, though Harriot grumbled because there were no beaten biscuits, and brought the announcement from Lucy that white flour was so scarce that they were saving what was left for sick folks.

“An’ youh ma she say if ever again she see the full of a bar’l of white flour at one time she’s gwin’ to give a party. Youh ma’s mammy she took mighty good care to open up she’s hands an put somepin’ in ’em when she was a baby. So, nach’ly you ma she ain’t close-fisted, nohow. What she’s got, she shares.”

Notwithstanding this lack of white biscuits the girls managed to make a very satisfactory meal, after which Harriot slipped into her dressing-gown to go back to her own room. But Dorothea stopped her.

“I’ve a lovely idea,” she cried suddenly. “Why don’t you wear one of my dresses and hats when we go to call on Corinne?”

Harriot seized on this suggestion with avidity.

“She might think we were strangers and give us fruit cake,” she suggested. “No one can make fruit cake like Aunt Dilsey, even now she has nothing to make it of.”

Dorothea’s dress being long for Harriot gave her a more mature look, which led naturally to rearranging her hair and she was very shortly a quite grown-up Harriot who at once assumed airs to fit her fine raiment. Lucy, vastly entertained by these plans, lent her quick fingers to the task and when it was finished expressed herself satisfied.

“Foh de land’s sake, Miss Harry!” she cried, stepping back to view her handiwork, “yoh sure is prettier than I eveh thought yoh could be. Lil’ Miss betteh look out for she’s beaux when you done come along dressed up.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Harriot retorted, but she was pleased, nevertheless. The fact was that her dress of green cashmere with a sacque and hat of deeper hue were most becoming and she made a charming picture.

“Come,” said Dorothea, “I want to show you off to Aunt Parthenia.”

But at this Harriot demurred.

“Mother’s apt to be mighty busy,” she objected. “Wait till we come back.”

She sent Lucy off with an order that Uncle Jastrow should harness up the carriage and drive them himself to go calling in state. Then they went down stairs to await their chariot. But when it came, Simeon was handling the reins. He was quite embarrassed and very apologetic for his lack of magnificence.

“Where is Uncle Jastrow?” demanded Harriot, bristling.

“Please, Miss Harry,” Simeon answered, “I knows I ain’t got no style, but Uncle Jastrow done say I was ’bliged to drive.”

“But why?” Harriot insisted. “Is Uncle Jastrow sick?”

“No’m, he ain’t sick ezackly,” Simeon replied, “but he say, please, Miss Harry, won’t you kindly be so good as not to blame him; but what with the horses quality company has rid off with to-day, and the horses Ol’ Miss done sent on errants, not to speak of the horses General Wheeler’s men pressed, they ain’t nothin’ lef’ in the stables ’ceptin ’tis ole Mose; An’ Uncle Jastrow he say he done kep’ his moanin’s to hisself when he come down f’om the granjure of four horses to drivin’ only two, knowin’ the war was makin’ us all sort of equinomical; but he can’t no way bemean hisself to one. He say yoh pa hisself wouldn’t ask him to hol’ the reins over only ole Mose, an’ he ain’t gwine’ disgrace the fambly that a-way.”

“Of course,” said Harriot, turning to Dorothea, “it does seem sort of humiliating for Uncle Jastrow, seeing what he’s used to driving. And I reckon he’s right about father. But he’s too proud of himself for all that. You would think that if we’re not too grand to ride behind old Mose he might be able to drive him. But come along. We’ll never get there if we don’t start pretty soon. I haven’t time to argue with Uncle Jastrow till we get back.”

The girls entered the carriage and Simeon, summoning all the style of which he was possessed, whipped up old Mose and they drove off.

“Is Uncle Jastrow a slave?” asked Dorothea, considerably puzzled by what she had seen and heard.

“I wish you wouldn’t say ‘slave’ as if you expected our people to walk about loaded with chains,” Harriot remarked judicially. “That’s what comes of reading ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’ Mother says the horrid Yankees call their servants ‘help’ just to be different from us. Of course Uncle Jastrow is one of our servants, but he’s so spoiled that he does just exactly what he wants. He bosses me and he bosses mother, and father just laughs at him. April’s the only one can manage him. You know it’s difficult to be dignified with an old man who knew you when you were a baby and can tell you just how fat you were.”

As they rolled along through the sunshine a more peaceful scene could hardly be imagined. No one seeing these two pretty girls in fashionable attire, driven along the quiet road by a neat black coachman, even though it was behind the despised ‘Ole Mose,’ would ever have thought they were living in a country engaged in a deadly war.

It was not a long journey, and soon they came to the home of Mr. Charles Stewart, where Simeon, with his best imitation of Uncle Jastrow’s grand manner, encouraged old Mose till he trotted up the driveway like a skittish colt. A little darky, on the watch for just such arrivals, sprang to the carriage and placed a cover over the wheel, and the two girls descended in state, spreading their gowns and preening themselves like peacocks.

But they had little chance to make an impression, for the front door was thrown hastily open and Corinne appeared, much excited.

“What do you think, Harriot?” she cried, taking no notice of either Dorothea or their finery; “Pa has just sent us word that the hateful English have repudiated the South. Whatever do you suppose we are going to do now?”