Miss Lou left consternation, confusion and deep anxiety below stairs. Mad Whately had his own code of ethics, and he felt as if he had committed the unpardonable sin. His mother was shocked and pained beyond measure. She understood the feelings of her son, and sympathized with him. Drawing him into the parlor, she soothed and cheered him with the assurance that when his cousin's anger passed she would explain and intercede.

"Oh, mother!" he exclaimed, "I did love her honestly before, but now I adore her. I must marry her, and by a lifetime of devotion wipe out the wrong I did not intend to inflict."

"It will all come about right yet, my boy," she whispered. "I never understood Louise before. I fear they have been too strict and unsympathetic in her bringing up, and so she has naturally rebelled against all their plans. You didn't think at the time—indeed, in our excitement we all forgot—that Aun' Jinkey was her mammy, and you know how strong that tie is, even in your case, and you have always had a mother's love."

"Oh, fool, fool that I was in my mad anger! Brave, grand, heroic girl! I'd have done as much for my old mammy; or rather I'd have struck down a general before he should harm her. Oh, mother, mother!" concluded the much-indulged youth, "I must marry her. She is just the bride for a soldier."

"Rather than have her fall into the hands of the enemy, we will lead her to see that it is the only thing to be done," replied Mrs. Whately.

Perkins had a consultation with Mr. Baron, as far as that desperately perturbed old gentleman was capable of holding one, the result of which was the decision to let the negroes alone, provided they kept quiet and obeyed. It was evident to both of them that the approach of Union forces, though yet comparatively distant, had produced the usual demoralizing effects. The government at The Oaks had not been harsh, but it had been strict and animated by a spirit which alienated sympathy. The situation was now seen to be too critical to admit of severity, all the more as the protection of Whately and his troopers might soon be withdrawn.

It was a silent and depressing meal to which they sat down that evening, long after the accustomed hour, a fact which Mr. Baron would not forget, even in the throes of an earthquake. He groaned over it; he groaned over everything, and especially over his niece, who had suddenly developed into the most unmanageable element in the whole vexed problem of the future. He felt that they owed her very much, and that she held the balance of power through her influence over the negroes; and yet he was incensed that she was not meek and submissive as a young woman should be under all circumstances. An angry spot burned in each of Mrs. Baron's cheeks, for she felt that Miss Lou's conduct reflected very unfavorably on her bringing up. She was so scandalized and vexed that she could scarcely think of anything else. Mrs. Whately was all deprecation and apology, trying to pour oil on the troubled waters in every way, while her son was as savagely angry at himself as he had been at poor Aun' Jinkey and her grandson.

Most fortunately the main feature in the case remained undiscovered. The fact that a Union scout had been hidden and permitted to depart would have been another bombshell, and the consequences of its explosion would have been equally hard to predict or circumscribe. As it was, Miss Lou and Aun' Jinkey received a certain remorseful sympathy which they would have forfeited utterly had the truth been revealed. And the secret did tremble on the lips of Zany. She was not only greatly aggrieved that Chunk had "runned away" after all, without her, and had become a sort of hero among his own kind on the plantation, but she also felt keenly her own enforced insignificance when she knew so much more than that Chunk had merely decamped. Her mistress little dreamed, as the girl waited stolidly and sullenly on the table, that she was so swelling with her secret as to be like a powder magazine. But fear rather than faith finally sealed Zany's lips. She was aware that the first question asked would be, "If you knew so much, why didn't YOU tell?" and she could give no reason which would save her from condign punishment. Moreover, she hoped that Chunk would soon return with no end of "Linkum men," and then her silence would be rewarded.

Supper was sent up to Miss Lou and her guest, and the old woman, having at last some sense of security, made her first good meal since "things began to happen." Then she hankered after her pipe. "I'll get it for you," said the warm-hearted girl. She stole to the head of the landing, and, the hall below being clear at the moment, she flitted down and out at the back door, reaching the deserted cabin unobserved. How desolate it looked in the fading twilight! The fire was out on the hearth, and the old creaking chair was empty. But Miss Lou did not think of Aun' Jinkey. Her thoughts were rather of a stranger whose face had been eloquent of gratitude as he offered to shield her with his life. Then she remembered his excited question as to the time of the marriage. "When?" Had her answer anything to do with the sudden and bold departure? Her heart was in a sudden flutter. She snatched the corncob pipe and tobacco pouch, and sped back again in a strange blending of fear and hope. She felt guilty that she could dare hope to see him, a Yankee, again. "But his smile was so pleasant and frank!" she murmured. "Oh, I never remember to have had such genial, honest, unreserved good-will looked at me by any one except mammy, and she's so old and wrinkled that she can't look much of anything. What handsome, kind, dark eyes he had! Yet they would all say, 'He's a monster!'"

She made her way back in safety until she reached the head of the stairs, and then came plump upon her aunt. "Where have you been?" asked Mrs. Baron, sharply.

"After Aun' Jinkey's pipe."

"Horrible! I forbid her smoking in this house."

"I shall permit her to smoke in my room."

"You have no right."

"Very well; then I'll go with her to her cabin."

"My dear sister," said Mrs. Whately, putting her hand on the irate lady's arm, "I think it will be better to let our niece have her way in such little things. We must remember that she is no longer a child."

"I think she is acting like a very perverse and foolish one; but then rather than have any more scenes"—and looking unutterable things she passed on down the stairs.

"My dear, I wish to see you by and by. Won't you let me?" said Mrs. Whately. "I wish to see you—I must see you before I sleep," replied the girl, decisively.

"I'll come up soon, then, dear."

Mrs. Baron reported to her husband what had occurred, but he only groaned. He was scarcely able to do much else now.

"Oh, hang it!" exclaimed Whately, "what fiend directs my luck this evening? If I had only known she had gone to the cabin, I could have compelled her to listen to me and to my apologies."

"No worse luck could have happened," said his mother, entering. "You must curb your impatience, and so—pardon me for saying it—must you, brother and sister. You are driving the girl to lengths she would never have thought of going. She is excited and almost beside herself. You forget, brother, that she is a Southern girl and a Baron, and has all the spirit of our race. She is one to be coaxed, to yield to gentle pressure and firm reasoning, and not to be driven."

"Oh, curse it! we've made a mess of it, I fear," groaned Whately, who was capable of violent alternations of mood, and now was in the valley of humiliation and almost despair.

"Well, you must all let me manage a little now," resumed Mrs. Whately, somewhat complacently, "or else there is no telling what trouble you may have."

"Yes, yes," cried her son, "I insist on mother's managing. She has always obtained what I wanted, and I shall certainly throw my life away if I don't marry Cousin Lou."

"Madison," said his mother, tearfully, "am I, who have so loaded you with kindness, of no account?"

"Oh, forgive me, mother, I can't do anything but blunder to-night. I'm all broken up, distracted by conflicting duties and feelings. I picked up important information this evening. The Yankee column, halting in the rich valley to the northwest, have been ranging the country far and near, loading their wagons and resting their horses. They will make a move soon, and will come this way just as likely as not. Our forces are coming up from the South, and there certainly will be a fight soon somewhere in this region. I received a secret despatch at the court-house, after seeing the minister, who will be here early to-morrow evening. After the wedding I intend to escort mother and my wife south to Cousin Sam Whately's. They certainly will be out of the Yankee line of march there. Perhaps you and aunt had better go too."

"No," said Mr. Baron. "I intend to stay and face it out here. I shall stand or fall on my own hearth."

"And I shall remain with my husband," added Mrs. Baron, firmly.

"Well, nothing worse may happen than a general sack of the place, but I cannot leave mother and the girl who is to be my wife. I shall ride over to our place in the morning for the best horse on it, and to see the overseer. I'll bring back a few papers which I will put in your charge, uncle."

Thus they discussed the emergency till Mrs. Whately thought she could venture to Miss Lou's room. Her son accompanied her to the door and called out, "I give you my word, cousin, that Aun' Jinkey can go to her cabin, and that no one shall disturb her"; then he retreated to the parlor again.

When Mrs. Whately entered the room, she witnessed what was not reassuring. Miss Lou's white shoulder was bare, and upon it was the long red mark of the whip. Aun' Jinkey was bathing the bruise with some lotion. "My poor child!" said the lady, "Madison is almost beside himself with grief and self-reproach."

"Please tell him," replied the girl, "that I'm glad the blow fell on me instead of mammy."

"Ah, well, my dear, he has asked forgiveness and is profoundly sorry."

"Hit soon be well, honey. Wish ter grashus hit wuz me dat hab it! en you barin' hit so patient, too, w'en I smokin'. Dar, I kiver hit up now, en hit ain' dar in de mawnin'. I reck'n I go back ter de cabin now, honey. I kin'er used ter my own chimbly corner. Miss Whately got sump'n ter say ter comfort you."

"Very well, mammy. I'll see that you have no trouble," and the old woman departed.

"Surely, Louise, you cannot expect any more trouble, after my son has said there would not be any," said Mrs. Whately, in a somewhat aggrieved tone.

"You must have seen," was the reply, "that Cousin Madison hasn't just the kind of self-control which inspires confidence."

"I assure you, Louise, that he regrets his act as much as you can. You should, in charity, remember his great provocation."

"Well, then," Miss Lou burst out, "let him make amends. Here I am, a defenceless girl, with all my kindred against me. He should be the first to defend me."

"So he wishes to do, my dear; and he only craves the most sacred right to defend you."

"Yes, in his own way, and without any regard to my feelings and wishes."

"Indeed, my dear, you misjudge him. You have only to yield one point in order to make him a slave to your wishes."

"But that is yielding everything. Oh, aunt, how can you urge a girl toward a loveless marriage?"

"Now, my dear, just listen patiently to me for a few moments," began Mrs. Whately in a wheedling tone. "I am older than you are. I know young girls are apt to have romantic notions, but when they reach my age they find that it is ever best to act in view of good and sufficient reasons. Apart from the terrible emergency that is upon us, you know that we all have had our hearts set on this marriage almost ever since you were born, and we have made no secret of the fact. It would be a terrible disappointment to us if it should not take place. I fear that life has been too strict and narrow for you here, but you know that in my home you will dwell in an atmosphere of kindness and indulgence. I will give up to you whenever you are ready to take the reins after these sore troubles are over. But, Louise, you do not realize that we are in the midst of a terrible emergency. You ought not to remain here. Madison has arranged that we both go south to his cousin Sam's."

"I don't wish to go!" cried the girl, wringing her hands.

"Now, my dear, can't you just believe that we, who are more experienced and know the danger, wish to do what is best for you and what you will soon see was best?"

"No, I cannot! I cannot! I just feel that I can't marry my cousin without perjuring myself."

"Surely you don't love any one else, Louise?"

"What chance have I had to love anyone, except my old mammy? I don't know anything about the love which I feel should lead to marriage. I have just been treated like a child, and then without any girlhood at all I'm to be married to one that I shrink from. I feel in my very soul that it's all wrong and unjust."

"But, my dear, you won't feel so after you are a wife and safe in your own home. You will then feel that you have reached woman's true place and sphere, without incurring the risks and misfortunes which befall so many. Your guardians might have shown more tact, perhaps, but they meant well, and they wish you well, and are seeking only your welfare. They feel in honor bound to do what is best for you, and not what, in your inexperience, you may wish at the moment. As for my son, a warmer-hearted fellow does not breathe. He loves you fondly. You can influence him, you can control him as no other can, you have the strongest hold upon him."

"Alas!" said the girl, divining the ultimate truth, "you love him blindly and wholly; you would sacrifice me, yourself and everything to him, and because he has always had everything his own way, he would have me in spite of the whole protest of my being. No one truly cares for me; no one understands me. I have been thrown back upon books and my own nature for such knowledge as I now so desperately need, and I feel that if I am false to my interests, to what I believe is right, my life is spoiled. I don't wish to marry any one, and as to all these dangers you so vaguely threaten, I believe that if there is a good God, he will take care of me."

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Whately, striving to hide the fact that she was baffled, "we won't talk any more about it to-night. You are excited and worried, and incapable of wise judgment. Rest and sleep are what you need now," and she kissed the girl, who did not return the caress.

"Wise judgment!" she muttered, bitterly, "what fine words they use! So you, too, are hopelessly against me. You would give me to your son just as you used to give him everything he cried for when a child. Well, then, I'll appeal to the minister himself. I don't believe he can marry me against my will. At any rate, I shall never give my consent, never; and perhaps somebody may come in time. My people are teaching me to fear them even more than the Yankees."