The first long tragic day of hospital experience had so absorbed Miss Lou as to relegate into the background events which a short time before had been beyond her wildest dreams. In the utter negation of her life she had wished that something would happen, and so much had happened and so swiftly that she was bewildered. The strangest thing of all was the change in herself. Lovers of the Whately and Maynard type could only repel by their tactics. She was too high-spirited to submit to the one, and too simple and sincere, still too much of a child, to feel anything but annoyance at the sentimental gallantry of the other. The genial spirit of comradeship in Scoville, could it have been maintained through months of ordinary life, would probably have prepared the way for deeper feeling on the part of both, but there had been no time for the gradual development of goodwill and friendly understanding into something more. They had been caught in an unexpected whirl of events and swept forward into relations utterly unforeseen. He owed his escape from much dreaded captivity and his very life to her, and, as he had said, these facts, to her generous nature, were even more powerful in their influence than if she herself had received the priceless favors. At the same time, her course toward him, dictated at first by mere humanity, then goodwill, had made his regard for her seem natural even to her girlish heart. If she had read it all in a book, years before, she would have said, "A man couldn't do less than love one when fortune had enabled her to do so much for him." So she had simply approved of his declaration, down by the run, of affection for which she was not yet ready, and she approved of him all the more fondly because he did not passionately and arbitrarily demand or expect that she should feel as he did, in return. "I didn't," she had said to herself a score of times, "and that was enough for him."

When later, for his sake, she faced the darkness of midnight, a peril she dared not contemplate, and the cruel misjudgment which would follow her action if discovered, something deeper awoke in her nature—something kindled into strong, perplexing life when, in his passionate gratitude, he had snatched her in his arms and, as she had said, "given her his whole heart because he couldn't help himself." From that moment, on her part there had been no more merely kind, tranquil thoughts about Scoville, but a shy, trembling, blushing self-consciousness even when in solitude his image rose before her.

As she sought to regain composure after the last interview with her cousin, and to think of her best course in view of what seemed his dangerous knowledge, a truth, kept back thus far by solemn and absorbing scenes, suddenly became dear to her. The spirit of all-consuming selfishness again manifested by Whately, revealed as never before the gulf of abject misery into which she would have fallen as his wife. "If it hadn't been for Lieutenant Scoville I might now have been his despairing bond slave," she thought; "I might have been any way if the Northern officer were any other kind of a man, brutal, coarse, as I had been led to expect, or even indifferent and stupid. I might have been forced into relations from which I could not escape and then have learned afterward what noble, unselfish men there are in the world. Oh, I COULD marry Allan Scoville, I could love him and devote my life to him wholly, knowing all the time that I needn't protect myself, because he would always be a kinder, truer, better protector. How little I have done for him compared with that from which he has saved me!"

There was a knock at the door and Zany quickly entered. "I des slip off while ole miss in de sto'-room, ter gib you a warnin', Miss Lou. Hain't had no charnce till dis minit. Dat ar ole fox, Perkins, been snoopin' roun' yistidy arter we un's tracks en las' night he tell Mad Whately a heap ob his 'jecterin'."

"But, Zany," said Miss Lou, "you don't think they KNOW anything."

"Reck'n hit's all des 'jecterin'," Zany replied. "Kyant be nufin' else. We des got ter face hit out. Doan you fear on me. We uns mus' des star stupid-like ef dey ax questions," and she whisked off again.

The girl felt that the spirit of Zany's counsel would be the best policy to adopt. While she might not "star stupid-like," she could so coldly ignore all reference to Scoville's escape as to embarrass any one who sought to connect her with it. In the clearer consciousness of her feeling toward the Union officer her heart grew glad and strong at the thought of the service she had rendered him, nor did it shrink at suffering for his sake. A gratitude quite as strong as his own now possessed her that he had been the means of keeping her from a union dreaded even as an ignorant child, and now known, by the love which made her a woman, to be earthly perdition.

"Having escaped that," she reflected, "there's nothing else I greatly fear," and she went down to breakfast resolving that she would be so faithful in her duties as a nurse that no one in authority would listen to her cousin or Perkins if they sought to make known their surmises.

Ignorant of her son's action and its results, Mrs. Whately met her niece kindly and insisted that she should not leave the dining-room until she had partaken of the breakfast now almost ready. Captain Maynard joined her with many expressions of a solicitude which the girl felt to be very uncalled for, yet in her instinct to propitiate every one in case her action should be questioned, she was more friendly to him than at any time before. Meanwhile, she was asking herself, "What would they do to me if all was found out?" and sustaining herself by the thought, "Whatever they do to me, they can't reach Lieutenant Scoville."

It was gall and bitterness to Whately to find her talking affably to Maynard, but before the meal was over she had the address to disarm him in some degree. For his own sake as well as hers and the family's she thought, "I must not irritate him into hasty action. If he should find out, and reveal everything, no matter what happened to me, he would bring everlasting disgrace on himself and relatives. I could at least show that my motives were good, no matter how soldiers, with their harsh laws, might act toward me; but what motive could excuse him for placing me, a young girl and his cousin, in such a position?"

Whately had already satisfied himself that no pretence of zeal for the service could conceal his real motive or save him from general scorn should he speak of the mere conjectures of a man like Perkins. He had never meant to speak of them publicly, simply to use his knowledge as a means of influencing his cousin. He now doubted the wisdom of this. Reacting from one mood to another, as usual, his chief hope now was that some unexpected turn of fortune's wheel would bring his opportunity. The one thing which all the past unfitted him to accept was personal and final denial. His egotism and impatience at being crossed began to manifest itself in another direction, one suggested by Maynard's evident susceptibility to his cousin's attractions. "Here is a chance," he thought, "of righting myself in Lou's eyes. If this fellow, thrown into her society by the fortune of war, not by courtesy, presumptuously goes beyond a certain point in his attentions, Cousin Lou will find that no knight of olden time would have fought for her quicker than I will. Mother says she is one who must have her romance. She may have it with a vengeance. It may open her eyes to the truth that a spirit like mine brooks no opposition, and when she sees that I am ready to face death for her she will admire, respect, and yield to a nature that is haughty and like that of the old nobility."

Thus he blinded himself in these vain, silly vaporings, the result of a false training and the reading of stilted romances. The thought of studying the girl's character, of doing and being in some degree what would be agreeable to her, never occurred to him. That kind of good sense rarely does occur to the egotistical, who often fairly exasperate those whom they would please by utter blindness to the simple things which ARE pleasing. Miss Lou had read more old romances than he, but she speedily outgrew the period in which she was carried away by the fantastic heroes described. They became in her fancy the other extreme of the matter-of-fact conditions in which her uncle and aunt had lived, and as we have seen, she longed to know the actual world, to meet with people who did not seem alien to her young and natural sympathies. Each new character she met became a kind of revelation to her. She was the opposite pole of the society belle, whose eyes have wearied of humanity, who knows little and cares less for anything except her mirrored image. With something of the round-eyed curiosity and interest of a child, she looked at every new face, asking herself, "What is he like?" not whether he will like and admire me, although she had not a little feminine pleasure in discovering that strangers were inclined to do this. Her disapproval of Maynard arose chiefly from the feeling that his gallantry at such a time, with the dead and dying all about them, was "more shocking than a game of cards on Sunday." She regarded his attentions, glances, tones, as mere well-bred persiflage, indulged in for his own amusement, and she put him down as a trifler for his pains. That he, as she would phrase it, "was just smitten without any rhyme or reason" seemed preposterous. She had done nothing for him as she had for Scoville. The friendly or the frankly admiring looks of strangers, the hearty gratitude and goodwill of the wounded, she could accept with as much pleasure as any of her sex; but she had not yet recognized that type of man who looks at a pretty woman and is disposed to make love to her at once. "Why does Captain Maynard stare at me so?" she asked herself, "when I don't care a thistle for him and never will. Why should I care? Why should he care? Does he think I'm silly and shallow enough to be amused by this kind of thing when that brave old colonel is dying across the hall?"

It was a relief to her to escape from him and Whately and to visit even poor Waldo, dying also, as she believed. "Dr. Ackley," she said, "you may trust me to give him his food now every two hours. I won't break down again."

"You did not break down, Miss Baron. All my nurses have their hours off. Why shouldn't you? I reckon," he added, smiling, "you'll have to obey my orders like the rest. I will go with you again on this visit."

To her the youth seemed ghastlier than ever, but the expression of gladness in his eyes was unchanged.

"Miss Baron feels very remorseful that she has not been to see you before," said Dr. Ackley, "but her labors yesterday were so many and varied that she had to rest. She will do better by you to-day."

Waldo could only reach his hand feebly toward her in welcome. She took the brown, shapely hand in both of hers and it made her sad to feel how cold and limp it was. "But a few hours ago," she thought, "it was striking blows with a heavy sabre."—"I have brought you some strong, hot soup," she said gently, "and shall bring it every two hours. You'll be very good and take it from me, won't you?"

He laughed as he nodded assent.

"When can I begin to read to him, doctor, to help him pass the time?"

"Perhaps to-morrow if he does well, but never more than a few minutes together until I permit. Slow and sure, Waldo, slow and sure are my orders, and you are too good a soldier to disobey."

He shook his head mischievously and whispered "Insubordinate."

The doctor nodded portentously and said, "If you and Miss Baron don't obey orders I'll put you both under arrest."

This seemed to amuse the young fellow immensely and he was about to speak again, but the surgeon put his finger to his lips and departed.

As she was feeding him with eyes full of gentle commiseration his lips framed the words, "You can talk to me."

She scarcely knew how to do this. There were questions she was eager to ask, for his strange, exuberant happiness under the circumstances were hard to understand, even after Dr. Ackley's explanation. She had never seen religion produce any such results. Uncle Lusthah seemed to her very sincere and greatly sustained in his faith, but he had always been to her a sorrowful, plaintive figure, mourning for lost kindred whom slavery had scattered. Like the ancient prophets also, his heart was ever burdened by the waywardness of the people whom he exhorted and warned. In young Waldo appeared a joyousness which nothing could quench. From the moment she obtained a clew to his unexpected behavior, everything in his manner accorded with the surgeon's explanation. In his boyish face and expression there was not a trace of the fanatical or abnormal. He seemed to think of Heaven as he did of his own home, and the thought of going to the one inspired much the same feeling as returning to the other.

"Well," said Miss Lou, after a little hesitancy, "it is a pleasure to wait on one who is so brave and cheerful. It makes me feel ashamed of worrying over my troubles."

He motioned her to get something under his pillow and she drew out a small Testament. With the ease of perfect familiarity he turned the leaves and pointed to the words, "Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." He looked up at her, smiled brightly, and shook his head when he saw tears in her eyes. Again he turned the leaves and pointed to other words, "Beloved, think it not strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though some strange thing happened unto you: but rejoice, inasmuch as ye are partakers of Christ's sufferings; that, when his glory shall be revealed, ye may be glad also with exceeding joy." His expression was wonderfully significant in its content, for it was that of one who had explained and accounted for everything.

"Oh," she faltered, "I wish I felt as you do, believed as you do. I hope you will get strong soon. I would like to tell you some things which trouble me very much, and there is no one I can tell."

"By and by," he whispered. "Don't worry. All right."

"Oh, what does this mean?" she thought as she returned to the house. "Awfully wounded, suffering, dying perhaps, yet 'glad with an exceeding joy'! Uncle and aunt haven't any idea of such a religion, and for some reason Dr. Williams never gave me any such idea of it at church. Why didn't he? Was it my fault? What he said seemed just words that made little or no impression. Since he tried to marry me to Cousin Mad I feel as if I could scarcely bear the sight of him."

Yet he was the first one to greet her on the veranda. He spoke with formal kindness, but she responded merely by a grave salutation, and passed on, for she felt that he should have understood and protected her in the most terrible emergency of her young life.

Having looked after the safety of his family, he had returned with the best and sincerest intentions to minister to the wounded. If the good he would do corresponded with these intentions he would have been welcomed in most instances; but he possessed that unfortunate temperament which is only one remove for the better from a cold indifference to his sacred duties. He did not possess a particle of that mysterious, yet in his calling priceless, gift termed magnetism for the lack of a better definition. All respected him, few warmed toward him or thought of opening to him their hearts. His mind was literal, and within it the doctrines were like labelled and separate packages, from which he took from time to time what he wanted as he would supplies from a store-room. God was to him a Sovereign and a Judge who would save a few of the human race in exact accordance with the creed of the Church in which the good man had been trained. What would happen to those without its pale was one of those solemn mysteries with which he had naught to do. Conscientious in his idea of duty to the last degree, he nevertheless might easily irritate and repel many minds by a rigid presentation of the only formula of faith which he deemed safe and adequate. It seemed his chief aim to have every form and ceremony of his Church complied with, and then his responsibility ceased. He and Mr. Baron had taken solid comfort in each other, both agreeing on every point of doctrine and politics. Both men honestly felt that if the world could be brought to accept their view of life and duty little would be left to be desired. When summoned to perform the marriage ceremony Dr. Williams no more comprehended the desperate opposition of Miss Lou to the will of her guardian, the shrinking, instinctive protest of her woman's nature, than he did the hostility of so many in the world to the tenets of his faith. His inability to understand the feelings, the mental attitude of others who did not unquestioningly accept his views and approve the action of the "powers that be" was perhaps the chief obstacle to his usefulness. He was not in the least degree intolerant or vindictive toward those who opposed him; his feeling rather was, "This is your opportunity. I gladly afford it and there my responsibility ceases"—a comfortable sort of belief to many, but one that would not satisfy a warm, earnest nature like Paul's, who said, "To the weak I became as weak, that I might gain the weak: I am made all things to all men, that I might by all means save some." Paul would have found some way to reach the ear and heart of nearly every wounded man in the extemporized hospital, but for the reasons suggested the visits of poor Dr. Williams soon began to be very generally dreaded. Old Uncle Lusthah had far better success with those who would listen to him.

Miss Lou soon found her way to the Federal wounded again. While agreeably to her wishes there was no formality in her reception, it was evident that the poor fellows had now learned to regard her with deep affection.

"I have told them all," said Dr. Borden who received her, "that you did as Yarry wished, that you took a good rest and were looking this morning as you should, and it has pleased them greatly. Phillips died last night, and has been removed. He hadn't any chance and did not suffer much. Remembering your wishes, we kept Yarry here. He lies there as if he were dozing after his pipe, as he wished you to think."

The girl stepped to the side of the dead soldier and for a moment or two looked silently into the still, peaceful face. Quietly and reverently the surgeon and others took off their hats and waited till she should speak. "Oh," she breathed softly at last, "how thoughtful and considerate you have been! You have made this brave, unselfish man look just as if he were quietly sleeping in his uniform. There is nothing terrible or painful in his aspect as he lies there on his side. Poor generous-hearted fellow! I believe he is at rest, as now he seems to be. I want you all to know," she added, looking round, "that he shall be buried where I can often visit his grave and keep it from neglect, for I can never forget the kindness that he—that you all have shown me. Dr. Borden, I will now show Uncle Lusthah the place where I wish the grave to be, and when all is ready I will come and follow poor Yarry to it. Do you think there ought to be a minister? There is one here now—Dr. Williams, who has a church near the Court House."

"Just as you wish, Miss Baron. For one, I think a prayer from Uncle Lusthah, as you call him, would do just as well and be more in accordance with Yarry's feelings if he could express them. The old negro has been in and out nearly all night, waiting on the men, and has won their goodwill. He certainly is a good old soul."

"I agree with the doctor," added Captain Hanfield. "Were it my case I'd ask nothing better than a prayer from Uncle Lusthah over my grave, for he has acted like a good, patient old saint among us."

A murmur of approval from the others followed these words, and so it was arranged. Uncle Lusthah was soon found, and he followed the girl to the shadow of a great pine by the run and adjacent to the grassy plot with which the girl would ever associate Allan Scoville. It was there that she had looked into his eyes and discovered what her own heart was now teaching her to understand.

Aun' Jinkey followed them from her cabin and asked, "Wat you gwine ter do yere, honey?"

"Bury here a Northern soldier who has done me a very great honor."

"Oh, Miss Lou, I des feared ter hab 'im so neah de cabin."

"Hush!" said the girl, almost sternly. "Uncle Lusthah, you ought to teach mammy better than that."

"Ah, youn' mistis, hit's bred in de bone. I des mourns ober my people, 'fusin' ter be comf'ted. Yere Aun' Jinkey, gittin' gray lak me. She a 'fessor ob religion, ye de word 'spook' set her all a tremble. Ef dey is spooks, Aun' Jinkey, w'at dat ter you? Dere's tunder en lightnin' en yearthquakes en wurin' iliments en all kin' ob miseries ob de body. Who gwine ter keep all dem fum yo' cabin? Reck'n you betteah trus' de Lawd 'bout spooks too."

"You don't believe in any such foolishness, Uncle Lusthah?"

"Well, young mistis, I gettin 'po'ful ole en I al'ays yeared on spooks sence I kin reckermember. I neber seed one fer sho, but I'se had strange 'sper'ences o' nights, en dar's dem w'at sez dey has seen de sperets ob de 'parted. I dunno. Dere's sump'n in folk's buzzums dat takes on quar sometimes, ez ef we libin' mighty close onter a worl' we kyant mos' al'ays see. Dat ar doan trouble me nohow, en Aun' Jinkey orter know bettah. Ef de Lawd 'mits spooks, dat He business. He 'mits lots ob tings we kyant see troo. Look at dese yere old han's, young mistis. Dey's wuked nigh on eighty yeah, yit dey neber wuked fer mysef, dey neber wuked fer wife en chil'n. Dat mo' quar dan spooks."

"I don't know but you are right," said the girl thoughtfully. "I didn't know you felt so about being free. Aun' Jinkey never seemed to trouble much about it."

"I'se 'feared Aun' Jinkey tink a heap on de leeks en inions ob Egypt."

"Dar now, Uncle Lusthah, you po'ful good man, but you owns up you doan know nufin' 'bout spooks, en I knows you doan know nufin' 'bout freedom."

"Yes I does," replied Uncle Lusthah. "Ef de day come w'en I kin stan' up en say fer sho, 'I own mysef, en God ony my Mars'r,' I kin starbe ef dat He will. En dat' minds me, young mistis. IS we free? Perkins growlin' roun' agin dis mawnin', en say we he'p 'bout de horspital ter-day, but we all go ter wuk ter-morrer. I 'lowed he orter talk ter us 'bout wages en he des larf en cuss me. Wat's gwine ter be de end? Marse Scoville en de big Linkum gin'ral say we free, en Perkins larf 'temptuous like. We des all a-lookin' ter you, young mistis."

"Oh, uncle! what can I do?"

"Shame on you, Uncle Lusthah, fer pilin' up sech a heap ob 'plexity on my honey," cried Aun' Jinkey, who was as practical as she was superstitious. "I kin tell you w'at ter do. I doan projeck en smoke in my chimbly-corner fer not'n. W'at kin you do but do ez you tole twel Marse Scoville en de Linkum gin'ral come agin? S'pose you say you woan wuk en woan 'bey, how you hole out agin Perkins en Mad Whately? Dey'd tar you all ter pieces. Dey say dis wah fer freedom. Whar yo' patience twel de wah'll end? De Yanks mus' do mo' dan say we free; dey mus' keep us free. Dar Aun' Suke. She say she free one minit en a slabe nex' minute twel her haid mos' whirl off her shol'ers. Now she say, 'I doan know 'bout dis freedom business; I does know how ter cook en I'se gwinter cook twel dey gets troo a whirlin' back en forth.' You says I mus' trus' de Lawd 'bout spooks, Uncle Lusthah. W'y kyant you trus' de Lawd 'bout freedom?"

The old man shook his head sorrowfully, for Aun' Suke and Aun' Jinkey's philosophy didn't satisfy him. "I'se willin' ter do my shar," he said musingly, "de Lawd knows I be. Ef I cud die lak po' Marse Yarry en de oders fer freedom I'se willin' ter die."

"Now, Uncle Lusthah, your strong feeling and not your good sense speaks," said Miss Lou, who had been thinking earnestly, meanwhile recalling Scoville's prediction that the negroes might come to her for help and counsel. "Aun' Jinkey is certainly right in this case, and you must tell all our people from me that their only safe course now is to obey all orders and bide their time. Perkins' authority would be sustained by all the soldiers on the place and anything like disobedience would be punished severely. If what Lieutenant Scoville and the Northern general said is true you will soon be free without useless risks on your part. If that time comes I want you and mammy to stay with me. You shall be as free as I am and I'll give you wages."

"Dar now, young mistis, ef I know I free I bress de Lawd fer de charnce ter gib my wuk ter you. Dere's a po'ful dif'unce 'twix' bein' took en kep en des gibin' yosef out ob yo' own heart. Slav'y couldn't keep me fum gibin' mysef ter de Lawd en I been He free man many a long yeah, en I be yo' free man, too, fer lub."

"Look yere, now, honey," added Aun' Jinkey, wiping her eyes with her
apron, "you kin bury sogers all 'bout de cabin ef you wanter. Uncle
Lusthah kyant do mo' fer you, honey, ner me, tookin resks ob spooks.
Des bury dem sogers, ef you wanter, right un'er my win'er."