“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.”