Of late years Aun' Jinkey's principal work had been the fine washing and ironing of the family, in which task she had always been an adept. For this reason she had been given the cabin near the run and an unusually fine spring. Miss Lou felt a kindly solicitude and not a little curiosity in regard to the man who in a sense had been thrown at her feet for protection. So gathering up some of her laces, she made them an excuse for another visit to Aun' Jinkey. Mrs. Baron readily acquiesced, for she felt that if there was to be a wedding, the whole house must be cleaned from top to bottom. Moreover, by such occupation her mind could be diverted from the dire misgivings inspired by the proximity of Yankees. Under the circumstances, it would be just as well if her niece were absent.

As the girl passed down through the shrubbery, she found Chunk apparently very busy. Without looking up he said, "Doan be afeard, Miss Lou, I'se be on de watch. Marse Linkum man right peart dis mawnin'."

Aun' Jinkey was at her washtub near the door, and the cabin presented the most innocent aspect imaginable. "Good-morning," said the girl, affably. "How is your patient?"

"Recovering rapidly, thanks to your kindness and the good friends in whose care you placed me," answered a hearty voice from the doorway.

Aun' Jinkey made a sort of rush to the door, exclaiming in tones that were low, yet almost stern, "Marse Linkum man, ef you show yo'sef—ef you doan stay by dat ar ladder so you git up sud'n, I des troo wid dis bus'ness! Tain' far ter dem w'at's reskin' dere bodies en a'most dere souls!"

"You are right, aunty," said Scoville, retreating. "It's wrong for me to do anything which might bring trouble to you or Chunk; but I was so eager to thank this other good Samaritan—"

"Well, den, sit by de ladder dar, en Miss Lou kin sit on de do'step.
Den a body kin feel tings ain' comin' ter smash 'fo' dey kin breve."

"Good Samaritan!" repeated Miss Lou, taking her old place in the doorway where she had so recently wished something would happen; "you have not fallen among thieves, sir."

"My fear has been that you would think that a thief had fallen among the good Samaritans. I assure you that I am a Union soldier in good and regular standing."

"I reckon my uncle and cousin would scout the idea that you, or any of your army, had any standing whatever."

"That does not matter, so that I can convince you that I would not do or say anything unbecoming a soldier."

"You are a Yankee, I suppose?" she asked, looking at him with strong yet shyly expressed interest.

"I suppose I am, in your Southern vernacular. I am from New York State, and my name is Allan Scoville."

"Uncle says that you Yankees are terrible fellows."

"Do I look as if I would harm you, Miss Lou? Pardon me, I do not know how else to address you."

"Address me as Miss Baron," she replied, with a droll little assumption of girlish dignity.

"Well, then, Miss Baron, you have acted the part of a good angel toward me."

"I don't like such talk," she replied, frowning. "You were merely thrown helpless at my feet. You didn't look as if you could do the South much harm then. What I may feel to be my duty hereafter—"

"I have no fears at all of what YOU may do," he interrupted, with a smile that made his expression very pleasing.

"How so?"

"Because you are incapable of betraying even an enemy, which I am not to you. On the contrary, I am a grateful man, who would risk his life to do you a service. The little unpleasantness between the North and South will pass away, and we shall all be friends again."

"My uncle and cousin—indeed all the people I know—will never look upon you Northern soldiers as friends."

"Never is a long time. I certainly feel very friendly toward you."

"I wish you to know that I am a Southern girl," she replied stiffly, "and share in the feelings of my people."

"Well, I'm a Northern man, and share in the feelings of my people.
Can't we agree that this is fair and natural in each case?"

"But why do you all come marauding and trampling on the South?"

"I beg your pardon, Miss Baron, but your question opens up all the differences between the two sections. I have my views, but am not a politician—simply a soldier. You and I are not at war. Let us talk about something else. With your brave cousin enlisting your sympathies against our side, what use would there be of my saying anything?"

"My brave cousin does not enlist any of my sympathies; but that, certainly, is a matter which we cannot talk about."

"Pardon, but your reference to him made it natural—"

"There is no need of speaking of him," she interrupted, coldly. "I merely meant that he and those with him in what you slightingly term an unpleasantness can never be friendly to you. This war may be a small thing to you, but suppose your home and family were in danger, as ours are?"

"Can you think that this war is a holiday to me?" he asked, gravely. "What stands between me now and death—perhaps a shameful and horrible death—except your kindly, womanly impulses? I am hourly in danger of being caught and treated as a spy."

"Oh, I didn't realize it," said the girl, simply and kindly. "Everything looks so quiet and lovely. Aun' Jinkey, there, my old mammy, is at work just as I have seen her for years, and Chunk is busy yonder in the garden. It is hard to think how suddenly all might change."

"A soldier must think and be prepared."

"Have you no fear?"

"Life is sweet to me. I know only one thing—I must do my duty and trust in God. I have the consolation that no one is dependent on me; no one would grieve for me very much. I'm quite alone in the world. My crusty old guardian would inherit my property, and you may well guess that Aunt Jinkey's tub yonder would hold all his tears if I should make a sudden exit," and again he smiled in his pleasant way, as if with the purpose to relieve his words of all sombreness.

"Are you an orphan, too?" she asked sympathetically.

"Such a mature, fully developed orphan as I am is not an object of pity, Miss Baron," he replied, laughing. Then he added, a little proudly: "I'm nearly twenty-two; I was twenty-one on my last birthday, and I celebrated it by a ride only less risky than the one which landed me at your feet. But your little word 'too' suggests that you are somewhat alone, also. I hope that your father was not killed in this war?"

"No, my father and mother died long before the war."

"I am glad of that—not glad that they died, but that you cannot associate me with the causes of their death."

"But you and yours have caused death and suffering to so many Southern people!"

"Yes, I'm sorry it is so, but things are pretty even on that score.
Your men give as many blows as they take."

"Why did you enter the army?"

"I suppose for about the same reasons that your cousin did."

"Oh, you aren't like my cousin at all. I don't wish you to keep referring to him."

"Well, then, I thought it was right. There was an urgent call for men and strong public feeling. I was at college. I couldn't see others go and not go with them. I had no influence, no one to push my interests, so I simply enlisted, and am trying to push my way by extra services. Now, Miss Baron, think for yourself a little. Here we are, two young people thrown together by a strange chance. We have been brought up differently, surrounded by different influences. Even if you think me wrong, can you not believe that I've followed my conscience and lived up to such light as I had? I can believe this of you. I don't wish you to think that we Yankees are monsters. Do I look like a monster? Why, Miss Baron, if I should live to be a hundred years I should regard a chance to do you a kindness as the best good-fortune that could befall me."

As he spoke these words his face flushed, there was a slight quiver in his dark mustache, betokening deep, honest feeling, and his expression was one of frank admiration and respect. She looked at him in silent wonder, and asked herself, "Can this be one of the Yankees of whom I have heard such horrible things?"

She began saying, "I am trying to think for myself, but I have been so shut out from the world that—" when she was suddenly interrupted. Chunk appeared and said, "Marse Scoville, des git up de ladder en shut de trap-do' quicker'n lightnin'. Miss Lou, kin'er peramberlate slow to'rd de house, des nachel like ez ef you ain' keerin' 'bout not'n. Wash away, granny. Play possum, ev'y one."

Miss Lou had gone but a little way before Mad Whately joined her, having ordered his men to pass on before. "Chunk," he shouted, "take my horse and rub him well, or you'll get rubbed down yourself."

The openings under the eaves in Aun' Jinkey's cabin were so many and large that Scoville had fairly good opportunities for observing what was going on in the immediate vicinity. In witnessing the meeting between Whately and Miss Lou he was conscious of a peculiar satisfaction when noting that her manner confirmed her words. The dashing cousin evidently was not in favor. "Well," thought the scout, with a decisive little nod toward him, "were I a young Southerner, you'd have a rival that would put you to your best speed. What a delicious little drawl she has in speaking, and how charmingly her consonants shade off into vowels! I would be more readily taken for a Southerner than she, if I did not speak. How blue her eyes are! and her fluffy hair seemed a golden halo when the sunshine touched it through the trees. And then how unsophisticated her face and expression! She is a lady from instinct and breeding, and yet she is but a sweet-faced child. Well! well! it was an odd chance to be pitched to the feet of a girl like that. Very possibly I'd be there again of my own free will should I see her often enough."

If Scoville were a rival now he certainly would have to take a wild pace to keep up with Mad Whately in his wooing. His eyes were full of resolute fire as he walked beside his cousin, and her quick intuition took speedy alarm at his expression. "Well, sweet coz," he said, "the Yanks have very prudently dusted back to the region from which they came. My mother will give herself the pleasure of a visit at The Oaks this afternoon. Can you guess her object in coming?"

"Why, as you say, to give herself the pleasure of a visit."

"Yes, and you and I will enhance her pleasure a thousand-fold."

"I shall do all that I can in courtesy."

"I'll do the rest, for I shall gladden her heart by marrying you."

"What!"

"Simply that, nothing more. Isn't that enough?"

"Far too much," replied the girl, hotly. "I don't like such jesting."

"Faith and it will prove the best joke of our lives, over which we will often laugh at our fireside hereafter. Come now, cousin, make the best of it; it is the best for you as well as for me. You know I always intended to marry you, and I have the hearty sanction of all the high contracting powers."

She stopped abruptly in the path, her face so rich in angry color that it shamed the flowers blooming in the shrubbery near.

"Mr. Whately," she said, firmly, "there is one contracting power that you have not consulted. How can you marry me when I WILL not marry you?"

"Nothing easier, pretty coz."

"But how—how?"

"Oh, that you will learn at the proper time. Everything shall go as simply, naturally and merrily as fate. The blessing of parent and guardian, the clergyman in robes, prayer-book, wedding feast—nothing shall be wanting."

"This is absurd talk," she cried, and rushed to the house. In the upper hall she encountered her aunt engaged in superintending a general dusting and polishing of the old-fashioned furniture.

"What is the meaning of this wild talk of Cousin Madison?" the girl asked, breathlessly.

"I've heard no wild talk," was the cool response.

"Well, come into my room and hear it, then."

Mrs. Baron reluctantly followed, rather aggrieved that she must bear the first brunt of the storm.

"What are you putting the house in such wonderful order for?" asked
Miss Lou, with flashing eyes. "What do all these preparations mean?
What is Aunt Whately coming here for this evening?"

"It is very natural she should wish to be present at her son's wedding," was the quiet and exasperating answer.

"When is this wedding to be?" was the next query, accompanied by a harsh laugh.

"I think we can be ready by to-morrow evening."

"Are you a woman, that you can thus try to sacrifice the motherless girl committed to your charge?"

"So far from sacrificing you, I am trying to further your best interests, and at the same time carrying out the wishes of my husband and your guardian. These are solemn times, in which you need every safeguard and protection. We should be faithless, indeed, to our trust did we not give a brave soldier the best right in the world to shield and care for you."

"Bah!" cried the girl, now almost furious. "Where's uncle?"

"In his office, I suppose."

Whately had preceded her thither, and had already made known to Mr. Baron the nature of his interview with his cousin, adding: "Our best policy will be just to take our course as a matter of course, in a genial, friendly way. We certainly are the girl's best friends, and it won't be long before she acknowledges the fact. All we do is to secure her safety, welfare and happiness. She will be as skittish as a blooded filly over it all at first—a feature in the case which only increases my admiration and affection. She doesn't and can't realize the need of the step, how it's best for all concerned in general and herself in particular. The thing to do, therefore, is to go right straight along. Mother will be here this evening, and will do much toward talking her into it. Lou's anger and revolt will probably be well over by to-morrow, and all—"

Further predictions were interrupted by the swift entrance of the girl. She stood still a moment and regarded the two men in silent scorn. "So you are plotting?" she said at last.

"Oh, dear, no, sweet coz. Nothing is more foreign to my nature than plotting. I am a man of action."

"If your words have any truth or meaning, you are bent on very dishonorable action."

"Far from it. I shall have the sanction of both Church and State."

"This, then, is the boasted Southern chivalry of which I have heard so much."

"It has been knightly in all times to protect and rescue lovely woman."

"I need no protection, except against you. Please leave the room. I wish to speak to uncle."

He attempted to kiss her hand as he passed out, but she snatched it away. "Uncle," she said, coming directly to him, "can it be that you sanction anything so wicked as this? It seems as if you and aunt were permitting my cousin to put upon me a cruel practical joke."

"Ahem! Your very words, Louise, prove how unfit you are to judge and act in accordance with this emergency. You even dream that we are in a mood for jesting at this time, when our days and even hours may be numbered. No, indeed. I am resolved to unite with my protection all the power and dignity vested in a Confederate officer."

"In other words, to shield me against some possible danger you will try to inflict on me the worst thing that could happen."

"Hoity-toity! Is an honorable marriage which has always been contemplated the worst that could happen? If we are driven forth by hordes of Northern vandals, you would think it the best thing that had happened."

"I don't fear these Northern vandals. I have"—and then she checked herself in time.

"You don't fear them! Why, Louise, every word you speak makes it more imperative that I should act for one so utterly inexperienced and ignorant."

"Do you actually mean to say that you will try to marry me against my will?"

"Certainly, against your present will. Do you suppose that I can be guided in my solemn trust by your petulance, your ignorant notions of life, and your almost childish passion? In France, the most civilized country in the world, parents and guardians arrange these affairs as a matter of course, and with the best results. It is the general method all over the world. Far more than mere family and pecuniary interests are concerned in this instance. We are giving you a protector in the time of your deepest need."

"How could Lieutenant Whately protect me if the Yankees should come in numbers?"

"In more ways than you can imagine. Moreover, he would probably be permitted to escort you and your mother to a place of safety. You would have his name, and the name of a Confederate officer would always entitle you to respect."

"Oh, this is dreadful!" cried the girl, bewildered and almost paralyzed by the old man's inexorable words and manner. So unsophisticated was she, so accustomed to be governed, that the impression was strong that she could be controlled even in this supreme crisis.

She rushed into the parlor, where her cousin was striding up and down in a whirl of the glad excitement so congenial to his spirit. "Cousin Madison," she exclaimed, "I know you are hasty and impetuous, but generous impulses should go with such a nature. You surely will not use your advantage against an orphan girl?"

"No, indeed, dear coz, not against, but for you. I love you too well to leave you to the chances of war."

"Oh, but this is the certainty of evil. You know I do not love you. If you would wait—if you would give me time to think it all over—"

"Why, so you shall when I've escorted you and mother to some place where none can molest or make you afraid."

"Escort me, then, as I am, under your mother's care. Truly this would be a better way to win my heart than such hasty violence to all my feelings and wishes."

"My dear Louise, you may think me a hasty, inconsiderate wooer to-day, but that is because you do not know all that I know. I must, like your guardians, be guided by your best welfare. When you learn to know me as a kind, loyal, considerate husband, you will appreciate my most friendly and decisive action at this time. You are in great danger; you may soon be homeless. In the case of one so young and fair as you are, those who love you, as you know I do passionately, must act, not in accordance with your passing mood, but in a way to secure your peace and honor for all time."

"Oh, this is all a terrible dream! You can—you can protect me as your cousin, should I need any such protection, which I cannot believe. Northern soldiers are not savages. I know it! I know it!"

"How can you know it? Have I not seen more of them than you have? I tell you that for the honor of our house I shall and will give you the protection of my name at once. Your uncle and aunt feel as strongly as I do about it, and your happiness will be the only result. We Southern people take no chances in these matters."

Overwhelmed, frightened, bewildered, the girl left the room and mournfully climbed to her own apartment. She was too utterly absorbed in her own desperate plight to observe Zany whisking away in the background.