Miss Lou led the way to the broad, moonlit piazza. As Scoville followed, he saw that the girl was trembling violently, and he was thus able to grasp in some degree the courage she was manifesting in her first half-desperate essays toward freedom. "Poor child!" he thought, "her fright is surpassed only by her determination. How easily they could manage her by a little tact and kindness!"

She pointed to a chair near the hall door and faltered, "Lieutenant Scoville, I scarcely know whether I am doing right in seeing you here alone. I know little of the usages of society. I do not wish to appear to you unrefined."

"Miss Baron," he replied kindly, "I do not know why you have not the same right which other young ladies enjoy, of entertaining a gentleman at your home."

"Oh, I am so glad that you are not angry."

"I was never more lamb-like in my disposition than at this moment.
Moreover, I wish to thank you as a brave girl and a genuine lady."

She was almost panting in her strong excitement and embarrassment. "Please remember," she said, "that I do not wish to do or say anything unbecoming, but I know so little and have been so tried—"

"Miss Baron," and he spoke low for fear he would be overheard, "I already know something of what you have passed through and of your brave assertion of a sacred right. Continue that assertion and no one can force you into marriage. I have ridden nearly twenty-four hours to be here in time and to make some return for your great kindness, but you were so brave that you scarcely needed help."

"Oh! I did need it. I was so frightened and so desperate that I was almost ready to faint. My cousin is one who WILL have his own way. He has never been denied a thing in his life, I should have been taken away at least and then—oh, I just felt as if on the edge of a precipice. It seems dreadful that I should be speaking so of my kindred to a stranger and enemy—"

"Enemy! Far from it. A friend. Have you not protected my life and liberty? Miss Baron, I give you my sacred word, I swear to you by my mother's memory to be as loyal to you as if you were my own sister. Young as I am, perhaps I can advise you and help you, for it is indeed clear that you need a friend."

"I cannot tell you what relief your words bring, for, inexperienced as
I am, something assures me that I can trust you."

"Indeed you can. I should spoil my own life more truly than yours if I were not true to my oath. Please remember this and have confidence. That is what you need most—confidence. Believe in yourself as well as in me. Have you not been brave and true to yourself in the most painful of ordeals? Try to keep your self-control and you will make no serious mistakes, and never so misjudge me as to imagine I shall not recognize your good intentions."

"Ah!" she sighed, with a rush of tears, "that's the trouble. I'm so hasty; I lose my temper."

He smiled very genially as he said, "If you were as amiable as some girls you would have been married before this. Don't you see in what good stead your high spirit has stood you? I do not censure righteous anger when you are wronged. You are one who could not help such anger, and, if controlled, it will only help you. All I ask is that you so control it as to take no false steps and keep well within your certain rights. You are in a peculiarly painful position. Your kindred truly mean well by you—see how fair I am—but if they could carry out their intentions and marry you to that spoiled boy, you would be one of the most unhappy of women. If he is capable of trying to force you to marry him he would always be imperious and unreasonable. You would be a hard one to manage, Miss Baron, by the words, You must, and You shall; but I think Please would go a good way if your reason and conscience were satisfied."

"Indeed, sir, you are right. If I loved my cousin I would marry him even though he were so badly wounded as to be helpless all his life. But my whole soul protests against the thought of marriage to any one. Why, sir, you can't know how like a child I've always been treated. I feel that I have a right to remain as I am, to see more of the world, to know more and enjoy more of life. I can scarcely remember when I was truly happy, so strictly have I been brought up. You would not believe it, but poor old Aun' Jinkey, my mammy, is almost the only one who has not always tried to make me do something whether I wish to or not. My aunt, Mrs. Whately, has meant to be kind, but even in my childish squabbles with my cousin, and in his exactions, she always took his part. I just want to be free—that's all."

"Well, Miss Baron, you are free now, and if you will simply assert your rights with quiet dignity you can remain free. Your kindred are mistaken in their attitude toward you, and you can make them see this in time. They are well-bred people and are not capable of using force or violence. They did, I suppose, believe terrible things of me and those I represent, and their action, perhaps, has been due partially to panic. That crisis is past; you have only to trust your own best instincts in order to meet future emergencies. Whatever comes, remember that your Northern friend said he had confidence that you would do what is brave and right. Perhaps we shall never meet again, for we are in the midst of a fierce, active campaign. There is much advice I would like to give you, but we shall not be left alone long, and the best thing now, after this long, hard day, is for you to get your mind quiet and hopeful. How quiet and peaceful everything is! not a harsh sound to be heard."

"Yes, and think what they tried to make me believe! They all should be treating you with kindness instead of—" but here she was interrupted by the appearance of Mrs. Whately.

In order to understand that lady's action and that of her relatives, we must go back to the moment when Miss Lou and Scoville left the supper-room. Mrs. Whately was the first to recover her self-possession and some true appreciation of their situation. Mr. Baron in his rage would have gone out and broken up the conference on the piazza, but his sister said almost sternly, "Sit down."

"Well," ejaculated Mrs. Baron, bitterly, "I hope you are both satisfied now with the results of courtesy to Yankees. I knew I was right in believing that we could have nothing whatever to do with them. I think it is monstrous that Louise is alone with one on the piazza, and her uncle should interfere at once."

"Brother," said Mrs. Whately, "you can see our niece through the window from where you sit. She is talking quietly with the officer."

"Yes, and what may he not say to her? Already her contumacious rebellion passes all bounds. She has heard too much incendiary talk from him already" and he again rose to end the interview.

"Hector Baron," said his sister solemnly, "you must listen to me first, before you take any further steps. We will say nothing more about the past. It's gone and can't be helped. Now, with all the influence I have over you, I urge you and your wife to remain here until you are calm—till you have had a chance to think. Is this a time for headlong anger? Was there ever a period in your life when you should so carefully consider the consequences of your action? Please tell me how you and sister are going to MAKE Louise do and think exactly what you wish. This is no time for blinking the truth that you have alienated her. You could easily now drive her to do something rash and terrible. I understand her better every moment and feel that we have taken the wrong course. She would have gone away with Madison as his cousin, and wifehood would have come naturally later. We have been too hasty, too arbitrary. You both must recognize the truth that you cannot treat her as a child any longer or you will lose her altogether, for in this matter of marriage she has been made to know that she is not a child. She can be led into it now, but not forced into it. Her course is open now, but if you continue arbitrary her action may become clandestine and even reckless. Then in regard to this Yankee officer. Alas I what he says is too true. In our strong feeling we shut our eyes to facts. Are we not in his power? He has spared my son's life and your property and home, and yet he has been virtually ordered out of the house. There is truth in what Louise said. We are not in the deepest stress of trouble—infinitely removed from the trouble we might be in."

"He has not spared my property," growled Mr. Baron, "he has told all my people they are free. Where does that leave me?"

"Now, brother, your very words prove how essential it is that you regain your self-control and reason. Is this young officer going through the country on his own responsibility? He only echoes the proclamation of Abe Lincoln, whom he is bound to obey. Since we entered on the discussion of our differences could we expect him to do otherwise than present his side as strongly as he could? Now if you and sister can shake all this off by one mighty effort of your wills, do so; but if we do not wish to invite every evil we predicted, do let us be calm and rational. For one, I feel Louise's reproof keenly, and it will not do to outrage her sense of justice any longer. This officer has proved that we were wrong in our predictions before he came. If now we continue to treat him as outside the pale of courtesy, we lose her sympathy utterly and do our utmost to provoke him and his men. Merciful heaven! if my son were a bleeding corpse or dying in agony, what would the world be to me? I shall apologize to him and treat him with politeness as long as I am under his protection."

"I shall have nothing to do with him," said Mrs. Baron, pressing her thin lips together.

"Well, well," ejaculated Mr. Baron, "I suppose I shall have to become meeker than Moses, and kiss every rod that smites me for fear of getting a harsher blow."

Mrs. Whately felt that it was useless to say anything more, and, as we have seen, joined her niece.

"Lieutenant," she said, "we owe you an apology, and I freely and frankly offer it. I fear you think we are making sorry return for your kindness."

"Mrs. Whately, I appreciate YOUR good intentions, and I can make allowance for the feelings of my host and hostess. The fine courtesy of Miss Baron would disarm hostility itself, but I assure you that there is no personal hostility on my part to any of you."

"Well, sir, I must say that I regard it as a very kind ordering of
Providence that we have fallen into such hands as yours."

"I certainly am in no mood to complain," he replied, laughing. "Perhaps experience has taught us that we had better ignore our differences. I was just remarking to Miss Baron on the beauty and peacefulness of the night. Will you not join us? We can imagine a flag of truce flying, under which we can be just as good friends as we please."

"Thank you. I will join you with pleasure," and she sat down near her niece. "Well," she added, "this is a scene to be remembered."

Miss Lou looked at Scoville gratefully, for his words and manner had all tended to reassure her. In her revolt, he showed no disposition to encourage recklessness on her part. As her mind grew calmer she saw more clearly the course he had tried to define—that of blended firmness and courtesy to her relatives. She was so unsophisticated and had been so confused and agitated, that she scarcely knew where to draw the line between simple, right action and indiscretion. Conscious of her inexperience, inclined to be both timid and reckless in her ignorance and trouble, she began even now to cling, metaphorically, to his strong, sustaining hand. His very presence produced a sense of restfulness and safety, and when he began to call attention to the scenes and sounds about them she was sufficiently quiet to be appreciative.

Dew sparkled in the grass of the lawn on which the shadows of trees and shrubbery fell motionless. The air was balmy and sweet with the fragrance of spring flowers. The mocking-birds were in full ecstatic song, their notes scaling down from bursts of melody to the drollery of all kinds of imitation. The wounded men on the far end of the piazza were either sleeping or talking in low tones, proving that there was no extremity of suffering. Off to the left, between them and the negro quarters, were two or three fires, around which the Union soldiers were reclining, some already asleep after the fatigues of the day, others playing cards or spinning yarns, while one, musically inclined, was evoking from a flute an air plaintive and sweet in the distance. Further away under the trees, shadows in shadow, the horses were dimly seen eating their provender. The Confederate prisoners, smoking about a fire, appeared to be taking the "horrors of captivity" very quietly and comfortably. At the quarters they heard the sound of negro-singing, half barbaric in its wildness.

"It is hard to realize that this scene means war," remarked Miss Lou, after they had gazed and listened a few moments in silence.

"Yet it does," said Scoville quietly. "Look down the avenue. Do you not see the glint of the moonbeams on a carbine? All around us are men, mounted and armed. If a shot were fired, we should all be ready for battle in three minutes. Those prisoners will be guarded with sleepless vigilance till I deliver them up. There is a sentinel at the back of the house, three guarding the out-buildings, and so it will be till I am relieved and another takes command."

"Who will he be?" she asked apprehensively.

"I do not know."

"Oh, I wish you could guard us till these troubles are over."

"I can honestly echo that wish," added Mrs. Whately.

"Thank you. It would be pleasanter duty than usually falls to the lot of a soldier. Yet in these times I scarcely know what my duty may be from hour to hour."

"You told us that we need not fear anything to-night," began Mrs.
Whately.

"Not unless I am attacked, I said. I am aware that at this moment your son is seeking a force to do this. I do not think that he will be able to find any, however, before morning. In any event you could have nothing to fear from us, except as your dreams were disturbed by a battle."

"Oh, I wish I were a soldier!" exclaimed the girl. "This whole scene seems as if taken right out of a story."

"You are looking at this moment on the bright side of our life. At any rate, I'm glad you're not a soldier. If you were, my duty might be made more difficult. It has other and very different sides. By the way, I would like to watch those negroes a little while, and listen to them. Their performances always interest me deeply. Will not you ladies go with me? Soon I must get some rest while I can."

Miss Lou looked at her aunt, who hesitated a moment, then said, "I am very tired, Lieutenant. I will trust you as a chivalrous enemy to take my niece, and I will sit here until you return."

"I deeply appreciate your kindness, madam."

Miss Lou went with him gladly and found herself at the close of the long, miserable day becoming positively happy. When out of hearing she said, "Aunt's permission almost took away my breath. Yet it seems to me just the way a girl ought to be treated. Oh, how perfectly delicious is a little bit of freedom! How perfectly grand to have something going on that does not mean no end of trouble to one's self!"

Scoville laughed lightly as he replied, "I now wish you were a soldier and an officer in my regiment. You and I would make good comrades."

"You forget, sir," she answered in like vein, "that I am a bloodthirsty little rebel."

"On the contrary, I remember that yours was the kind, pitying face which made me half fancy I was in heaven when recovering from my swoon."

"Chunk and Aun' Jinkey brought you back to earth right sudden, didn't they?" and her laugh rang out merrily.

"Sister," cried Mr. Baron, running out on the veranda, "what on earth—I thought I heard Louise laugh way off toward the quarters."

"You did."

"What! has she broken all bounds, defied all authority, and gone utterly wild in her rebellion?"

Mrs. Whately made a gesture of half irritable protest. Meantime, Mrs.
Baron, hearing her husband's voice, came out and exclaimed, "Is that
Louise and the Yankee yonder going off alone?"

"They are not 'going off.' You and brother may join them if you wish. They simply intend to watch the people at the quarters a little while, and I will wait here for them."

"Sarah Whately!" gasped Mrs. Baron, "can you mean to say that you have permitted our ward to do such an indelicate thing? She has never been permitted to go out alone in the evening with any young man, and the idea that she should begin with a Yankee!"

"She is not alone. She is always within call and most of the time in sight. I will make one more effort to bring you both to reason," added Mrs. Whately, warmly, "and then, if we continue to differ so radically, I will return home in the morning, after giving Louise to understand that she can always find a refuge with me if it is necessary. Can you think I would let the girl whom my son hopes to marry do an indelicate thing? Pardon me, but I think I am competent to judge in such matters. I will be answerable for her conduct and that of Lieutenant Scoville also, for he is a gentleman if he is our enemy. I tell you again that your course toward Louise will drive her to open, reckless defiance. It is a critical time with her. She is my niece as well as your ward, and it is the dearest wish of myself and son that she should be bound to us by the closest ties. I will not have her future and all our hopes endangered by a petty, useless tyranny. If you will treat her like a young lady of eighteen I believe she will act like one."

Mrs. Baron was speechless in her anger, but her husband began, "Oh, well, if he were a Southern officer—"

Then the blood of her race became too hot for Mrs. Whately's control, and she sprang up, saying, "Well, then, go and tell him to his face that he's a vile Yankee, a Goth and Vandal, a ruthless invader, unworthy of a moment's trust, and incapable of behaving like a gentleman! Take no further protection at his hands. How can you be so blind as not to see I am doing the best thing possible to retain Louise within our control and lead her to fulfil our hopes? I ask you again, how are you going to MAKE Louise do what you wish? You cannot be arbitrary with even one of your own slaves any longer."

"Well," said Mrs. Baron, "I wash my hands of it all," and she retired to her room. Mr. Baron sat down in a chair and groaned aloud. It was desperately hard for him to accept the strange truth that he could not order every one on the place, his niece included, to do just what pleased him. Never had an autocratic potentate been more completely nonplussed; but his sister's words, combined with events, brought him face to face with his impotence so inexorably that for a time he had nothing to say.