“Why haven’t you told me of this?  How could you have seen him?” and the old man, in his strong excitement, rose from his chair.

“My reception when I entered was not conducive to conversation.  I was merely sitting by the run and saw both parties gallop past.”

“You should have come instantly to me.”

“I’m sure I came in hastily,” she replied, crimsoning in the consciousness of her secret, “but I was met as if I had been guilty of something awful.”

“Well, if I had known,” began her uncle, in some confusion, mistaking her color for an expression of anger.

“I think,” remarked her aunt, coldly, “that Louise should have recognized that she had given you just cause for displeasure by her tardiness, unless it were explained, and she should have explained at once.  I have no patience with the spirit she is displaying.”

But Mr. Baron’s mind had been diverted to more serious and alarming considerations than what he characterized mentally as “a girl’s tantrum.”

“It makes my blood boil,” he said, “to think that this Northern scum is actually in our neighborhood, and might be at our doors but for my brave nephew.  Thanks to him, they met a righteous reception on this plantation; thanks to him, in all probability, we are not now weltering in our blood, with the roof that shelters us blazing over our heads.  If those marauders had found us unprotected, young woman, you would have rued the day.  Their capacity for evil is only equalled by their opportunities.  If your cousin had not flamed after them like an avenging sword you might have cried loudly enough for the one of whom, in your fit of unseemly petulance, you can speak so slightingly.  I advise you to go to your room and thank Heaven for your escape.”

“Uncle, are the people of the North savages?”

“Its soldiers are worse than savages.  Have you not heard me express my opinion of them over and over again?  Go to your room, and when you appear again, I trust it will be with the meekness and submission becoming in a young woman.”

When the girl left Aun’ Jinkey’s cabin the young soldier looked after her with an expression of deep interest.  “Who is she?” he asked.

“Dat’s Miss Lou,” said the old negress, forcing into his mouth another spoonful of her fiery decoction.

“Oh, that’s enough, aunty, unless you wish to burn me out like a hollow log,” and he struggled to his feet to ease his tendency to strangle.  “Miss Lou?  How should I know who she is?”

“Ob co’se,” said Aun’ Jinkey, dryly, “I ain’ namin’ her pedigree.”

“You a Linkum man, ain’ you?” Chunk asked, quickly.

“Yes, and Lincoln is a good friend of yours.”

“Hi!  I knows dat.  W’at fer you so hidin’-in-de-grass, granny?  No use bein’ dat away wid a Linkum man.”

“I ain’ talkin’ ’bout my young mistis to folks ez drap down fum de clouds.”

“You wouldn’t like me better if I came up from below, aunty.  There now, I’m not a very bad fellow, and I belong to the army that’s going to make you all free.”