Mr. Baron was one of the few of the landed gentry in the region who was not known by a military title, and he rather prided himself on the fact. "I'm a man of peace," he was accustomed to say, and his neighbors often remarked, "Yes, Baron is peaceable if he has his own way in everything, but there's no young blood in the county more ready for a fray than he for a lawsuit." "Law and order" was Mr. Baron's motto, but by these terms he meant the perpetuity of the conditions under which he and his ancestors had thus far lived. To distrust these conditions was the crime of crimes. In his estimation, therefore, a Northern soldier was a monster surpassed only by the out-and-out abolitionist. While it had so happened that, even as a young man, his tastes had been legal rather than military, he regarded the war of secession as more sacred than any conflict of the past, and was willing to make great sacrifices for its maintenance. He had invested all his funds as well as those of his niece in Confederate bonds, and he had annually contributed a large portion of the product of his lands to the support of the army. Living remote from the scenes of actual strife, he had been able to maintain his illusions and hopes to a far greater extent than many others of like mind with himself; but as the war drew toward its close, even the few newspapers he read were compelled to justify their name in some degree by giving very unpalatable information. As none are so blind as those who will not see, the old man had testily pooh-poohed at what he termed "temporary reverses," and his immunity from disturbance had confirmed his belief that the old order of things could not materially change. True, some of his slaves had disappeared, but he had given one who had been caught such a lesson that the rest had remained quiet if not contented.

The news brought by his overseer became therefore more disturbing than the strange and preposterous conduct of his niece, and he had demanded excitedly, "What on earth's the matter, Perkins?"

"Well, sir, fur's I kin mek out, this very plantation's been p'luted by
Yankee soldiers this very evenin'. Yes, sir."

"Great heavens! Perkins," and Mr. Baron sprang from his chair, then sank back again with an expression suggesting that if the earth opened next it could not be worse.

"Yes, sir," resumed Perkins, solemnly, "I drawed that much from Jute. He seen 'em hisself. I noticed a s'pressed 'citement en talk in the quarters this evenin', an' I follered hit right up an' I ast roun' till I pinned Jute. He was over the fur side of the run lookin' fur a stray crow, an' he seen 'em. But they was bein' chased lively. Mad Whately—beg pardon—Mr. Madison was arter them with whip and spur. Didn't yer hear a crack of a rifle? I did, and reckoned it was one o' the Simcoe boys out gunnin', but Jute says hit was one o' our men fired the shot, en that they chased the Yanks to'erds the big woods. They was all mounted en goin' it lickity switch. The thing that sticks in my crop isn't them few what Mr. Madison chased, but the main body they belongs to. Looks as ef there's goin' to be a raid down our way."

"If that is so," said Mr. Baron, majestically, "Lieutenant Whately proves that our brave men are not far off, either, and the way he chased some of them shows how all the vile invaders will eventually be driven out of the country. Be vigilant, Perkins, and let it be understood at the quarters that Lieutenant Whately is within call."

The overseer bowed awkwardly and limped away. His lameness had secured him immunity from military duty.

"Ah, that's a man for you," said Mr. Baron, glaring at his niece. "Your cousin is a true scion of Southern chivalry. That is the kind of a man you do not know whether you wish to marry or not—a brave defender of our hearths and liberties."

"If he wishes to marry me against my will, he's not a defender of my liberty," retorted the girl.

"If you had the spirit which should be your birthright your eyes would flash with joy at the prospect of seeing a hero who could thus chase your enemies from our soil. If you could only have seen him in his headlong—"

"I did see him."

"What!"

"I saw Cousin Madison leading a dozen or more men in pursuit of half a dozen. That does not strike me as sublimely heroic."

"Why haven't you told me of this? How could you have seen him?" and the old man, in his strong excitement, rose from his chair.

"My reception when I entered was not conducive to conversation. I was merely sitting by the run and saw both parties gallop past."

"You should have come instantly to me."

"I'm sure I came in hastily," she replied, crimsoning in the consciousness of her secret, "but I was met as if I had been guilty of something awful."

"Well, if I had known," began her uncle, in some confusion, mistaking her color for an expression of anger.

"I think," remarked her aunt, coldly, "that Louise should have recognized that she had given you just cause for displeasure by her tardiness, unless it were explained, and she should have explained at once. I have no patience with the spirit she is displaying."

But Mr. Baron's mind had been diverted to more serious and alarming considerations than what he characterized mentally as "a girl's tantrum."

"It makes my blood boil," he said, "to think that this Northern scum is actually in our neighborhood, and might be at our doors but for my brave nephew. Thanks to him, they met a righteous reception on this plantation; thanks to him, in all probability, we are not now weltering in our blood, with the roof that shelters us blazing over our heads. If those marauders had found us unprotected, young woman, you would have rued the day. Their capacity for evil is only equalled by their opportunities. If your cousin had not flamed after them like an avenging sword you might have cried loudly enough for the one of whom, in your fit of unseemly petulance, you can speak so slightingly. I advise you to go to your room and thank Heaven for your escape."

"Uncle, are the people of the North savages?"

"Its soldiers are worse than savages. Have you not heard me express my opinion of them over and over again? Go to your room, and when you appear again, I trust it will be with the meekness and submission becoming in a young woman."

When the girl left Aun' Jinkey's cabin the young soldier looked after her with an expression of deep interest. "Who is she?" he asked.

"Dat's Miss Lou," said the old negress, forcing into his mouth another spoonful of her fiery decoction.

"Oh, that's enough, aunty, unless you wish to burn me out like a hollow log," and he struggled to his feet to ease his tendency to strangle. "Miss Lou? How should I know who she is?"

"Ob co'se," said Aun' Jinkey, dryly, "I ain' namin' her pedigree."

"You a Linkum man, ain' you?" Chunk asked, quickly.

"Yes, and Lincoln is a good friend of yours."

"Hi! I knows dat. W'at fer you so hidin'-in-de-grass, granny? No use bein' dat away wid a Linkum man."

"I ain' talkin' 'bout my young mistis to folks ez drap down fum de clouds."

"You wouldn't like me better if I came up from below, aunty. There now, I'm not a very bad fellow, and I belong to the army that's going to make you all free."

"I hasn't des tink out dis question ob bein' free yit. I'se too ole to wuk much an' old mars'r's took keer on me long time."

"Well, I'se tink it out," put in Chunk, decidedly; "en I'se able to wuk fer you en me too."

"You mighty peart, Chunk, co'tin' a gal lie a bean-pole a'ready. I reck'n she spen' all you eber mek. You bettah boos' de Linkum man into dat ar lof sud'n, kase ef Marse Perkins cotch 'im yere we all ain' feelin' berry good bimeby."

"Dat ar truer'n preachin'," admitted Chunk, with alacrity. "Des you tek hol' ob dem ladder rouns, mars'r, an' put yo' foots on my sho'lers. Dat's hit. Nobody tink ob fin'in' you yere. I'se study how ter git yo' hoss out of sight 'gin mawnin'."

"You stand by me, Chunk," said the soldier, "and you won't be sorry. There's a lot of us coming this way soon, and I can be a good friend of yours and all your people if you help me out of this scrape."

"I'se gwine ter stan' by you, boss. I'se mek up my min' ter be free dis time, sho! Hi! w'at dat?"

He was wonderfully agile, for his arms were nearly as long as his legs. In an instant he descended, drawing a trap-door after him. Then he sauntered to the door, which he opened wide. A troop of horsemen were coming single file by a path which led near the cabin, and the foremost asked in a voice which the negro recognized as that of Lieutenant Whately, "Is that you, Chunk?"

"Dat's me, mars'r. My 'specs."

"Be off, you skeleton. Make time for the house and help get supper for me and the men. If you don't run like a red deer, I'll ride you down."

"Good Lawd! w'at gwine ter hap'n nex'?" groaned Chunk, as he disappeared toward the mansion. He burst like a bombshell into the kitchen, a small building in the rear of the house.

"Did you eber see de likes?" exclaimed Zany. "What yo' manners—"

"Hi, dar! talk 'bout manners! Marse Whately comin' wid a army, en want supper fer um all in des one minute en er haf by de clock!"

Great, fat Aun' Suke threw up her hands in despair, and in the brief silence the tramp of horses and the jingling of sabres were plainly heard. They all knew Mad Whately, and it needed not that Mrs. Baron, desperately flurried, should bustle in a few moments later with orders that all hands should fly around. "What you doing here?" she asked Chunk, sharply.

"I'se here ter hep, mistis. Dem's my orders from Marse Whately. He come ridin' by granny's."

"Then go and kill chickens."

A few moments later the dolorous outcry of fowls was added to the uproar made by the barking dogs.

With a chill of fear Miss Lou, in her chamber, recognized her cousin's voice, and knew that he, with his band, had come to claim hospitality at his uncle's hands. What complications did his presence portend? Truly, the long months of monotony on the old plantation were broken now. What the end would be she dared not think, but for the moment her spirit exulted in the excitement which would at least banish stagnation.

In his secret heart Mr. Baron had hoped that his nephew would go on to his own home, a few miles further; for applauding him as a hero was one thing, and having him turn everything upside down at that hour another. Routine and order were scattered to the winds whenever Mad Whately made his appearance, but the host's second thoughts led him to remember that this visitation was infinitely to be preferred to one from the terrible Yankees; so he threw wide open the door, and, with his wife, greeted his nephew warmly. Then he shouted for Perkins to come and look after the horses.

"Ah, mine uncle," cried Whately, "where on earth is to be found a festive board like yours? Who so ready to fill the flowing bowl until even the rim is lost to sight, when your defenders have a few hours to spare in their hard campaigning? You won't entertain angels unawares to-night. You'd have been like Daniel in the den with none to stop the lions' mouths, or rather the jackals', had we not appeared on the scene. The Yanks were bearing down for you like the wolf on the fold. Where's my pretty cousin?"

Mr. Baron had opened his mouth to speak several times during this characteristic greeting, and now he hastened to the foot of the stairs and shouted, "Louise, come down and help your aunt entertain our guests." Meanwhile Whately stepped to the sideboard and helped himself liberally to the sherry.

"You know me must maintain discipline," resumed Whately, as his uncle entered the dining-room. "The night is mild and still. Let a long table be set on the piazza for my men. I can then pledge them through the open window, for since I give them such hard service, I must make amends when I can. Ah, Perkins, have your people rub the horses till they are ready to prance, then feed them lightly, two hours later a heavier feed, that's a good fellow! You were born under a lucky star, uncle. You might now be tied up by your thumbs, while the Yanks helped themselves."

"It surely was a kind Providence which brought you here, nephew."

"No doubt, no doubt; my good horse, also, and, I may add, the wish to see my pretty cousin. Ah! here she comes with the blushes of the morning on her cheeks," but his warmer than a cousinly embrace and kiss left the crimson of anger in their places.

She drew herself up indignantly to her full height and said, "We have been discussing the fact that I am quite grown up. I will thank you to note the change, also."

"Why, so I do," he replied, regarding her with undisguised admiration; "and old Father Time has touched you only to improve you in every respect."

"Very well, then," she replied, coldly, "I cannot help the touch of
Father Time, but I wish it understood that I am no longer a child."

"Neither am I, sweet cousin, and I like you as a woman far better."

She left the room abruptly to assist her aunt.

"Jove! uncle, but she has grown to be a beauty. How these girls blossom out when their time comes! Can it be that I have been absent a year?"

"Yes, and your last visit was but a flying one."

"And so I fear this one must be. The Yanks are on the move, perhaps in this direction, and so are we. It was one of their scouting parties that we ran into. Their horses were fresher than ours and they separated when once in the shadow of the woods. They won't be slow, however, in leaving these parts, now they know we are here. I'm going to take a little well-earned rest between my scoutings, and make love to my cousin. Olympian humbugs! how handsome and haughty she has become! I didn't think the little minx had so much spirit."

"She has suddenly taken the notion that, since she is growing up, she can snap her fingers at all the powers that be."

"Growing up! Why, uncle, she's grown, and ready to hear me say, 'With all my worldly goods I thee endow.'"

"But the trouble is, she doesn't act as if very ready."

"Oh, tush! she isn't ready to throw herself at the head of any one. That isn't the way of Southern girls. They want a wooer like a cyclone, who carries them by storm, marries them nolens volens, and then they're happy. But to be serious, uncle, in these stormy times Lou needs a protector. You've escaped for a long time, but no one can tell now what a day will bring forth. As my wife, Cousin Lou will command more respect. I can take her within our lines, if necessary, or send her to a place of safety. Ah, here comes my blooming aunt to prepare for supper."

"Welcome to The Oaks," she again repeated. "Never more welcome, since you come as defender as well as guest."

"Yes, aunt; think of a red-whiskered Yank paying his respects instead of me."

"Don't suggest such horrors, please."

The gentlemen now joined Miss Lou in the parlor, while under Mrs. Baron's supervision Zany, and Chunk, as gardener and man-of-all-work, with the aid of others soon set the two tables. Then began a procession of negroes of all sizes bearing viands from the kitchen.