“Yes, that is so, boys.  And they’ve been threatening and abusing you to-night?”

“Yes, sah, dat dey hab!” cried a score of voices, and one after another showed his wounds, and told a piteous tale.

Elsie and her namesake daughter wept over their losses and sufferings:  the medicine closet was unlocked and its stores liberally drawn upon for materials to dress their wounds, both master and mistress attending to them with their own hands; and at the same time speaking soothing, comforting words, and promising help to repair the damage to their property, and make good their losses:  also to bring their enemies to justice if that might be possible.

It was broad daylight ere the work was finished.

The veranda was nearly empty now, the people slowly returning to their homes—­Mr. Travilla having assured them the danger was past for the present—­when Elsie caught sight of a woman whom she had not observed till that moment.

The poor creature had dropped down upon a bench at the kitchen door.  Her right arm hung useless at her side; with the left she held the bloody corpse of a puny infant to her breast, and the eyes she lifted to the face of her mistress were full of a mute, tearless agony.

Elsie’s overflowed at the piteous sight.  “O my poor Minerva,” she said, “what is this they have done to you and poor little Ben?”

“Oh, oh, oh, Miss Elsie! de Ku Kluxes dey shot tru de doah, an’ de balls flyin’ all roun’, an’—­an’—­one hit me on de arm, an’ killed my baby!” she sobbed, “oh! oh! oh! de doctah mend de arm, but de baby, he—­he—­done gone foreber;” and the sobs burst forth with renewed violence, while she hugged the still form closer, and rocked herself to and fro in her grief.

“Gone to heaven, my poor Minerva, to be forever safe and happy with the dear Lord Jesus,” her mistress said in quivering tones, the tears rolling fast down her own cheeks.

“An’ he neber hab no mo’ miseries, honey,” said Aunt Dicey, drawing near; “no Ku Klux come into de garden ob de Lord to scare him or hurt him; bress his little heart!”

“Wish we all dere, safe an’ happy like he!  Let me wash off de blood an’ dress him clean for de grave,” said Aunt Sally, the nurse of the quarter, gently taking the child, while Mr. Travilla and Elsie bound up the wounded arm, speaking soothingly to the sufferer, and promising the doctor’s aid as soon as it could be procured.

Aunt Sally sat near attending to the last offices for the tiny corpse, little Elsie looking on, with big tears coursing down her cheeks.  Presently going to her mother’s side, she whispered a few words in her ear.

“Yes, dear, you may go to the bureau drawer and choose it yourself,” was the prompt reply, and the child ran into the house, returning directly with a baby’s slip of fine white muslin, delicately embroidered.

“Put this on him, Aunt Sally,” she said; “mamma gave me leave to get it.”