most influence over him and who best promised to maintain it.  She was not so blind in her indulgence as helpless in it from long habit.  She thought that as a wife the girl would not only hold her own, but also do much toward restraining her son in his wild tendencies; but she gave no weight to the consideration often in Miss Lou’s mind, “I do not see why everything and everybody should exist for Cousin Mad’s benefit.”

Mrs. Whately secretly approved of Scoville’s orders in regard to the wounded, but did not so express herself, resolving not to come into collision again with her relatives unless it was essential.  She now went out and assisted the surgical trooper in dressing the men’s injuries.  Miss Lou had learned that breakfast would be delayed, and so decided to satisfy her hunger partially at Aun’ Jinkey’s cabin.  The excitements of the preceding day had robbed her of all appetite, but now she was ravenous.  Her estrangement from her uncle and aunt was so great that she avoided them, having a good deal of the child’s feeling, “I won’t speak till they make up first.”

The old negress heard her rapid steps and looked out from her door.  “Oh, mammy,” cried the girl, “I’m that hungry I could almost eat you, and I don’t know when we’ll have breakfast.”

“You des in time, den, honey.  Come right in.”

But Miss Lou paused at the door in embarrassment, for Scoville had risen from the table and was advancing to meet her.  “Good-morning, Miss Baron,” he said.  “Aunt Jinkey and Chunk have prepared me a capital breakfast, and I should be only too delighted to share it.  I must be in the saddle soon and so availed myself of the first chance for a meal.  Please do not hesitate, for it will probably be my only opportunity of saying good-by.”

“Dar now, honey, sit right down.  Ef Marse Scoville ain’ quality den I doan know um.”

“Miss Baron,” cried Scoville, laughing, “Aunt Jinkey has raised a point now which you alone can settle—­the question of my quality.”

“About the same as my own, I reckon,” said the girl, sitting down with rosy cheeks.  “Aun’ Jinkey is evidently your ally, for she has put her invitation in a form which I could not decline without hurting the feelings of—­”

“Your sincere and grateful friend,” interrupted the officer.

“Uncle and aunt would think I was committing an unheard-of indiscretion.”

“But are you?”

“I’m too hungry to discuss the question now,” she answered, laughing.  “Do let us hasten, for such old friends should not part with their mouths full.”

“Well, hit des does my ole heart good ter see you sittin’ dar, Miss Lou.  I’se po’ful glad yo’ mouf’s full ob breakfas’ en dat yo’ eyes ain’ full ob tears.  Wat we projeckin’ ’bout yistidy?”

“Now, Aun’ Jinkey, just keep still.  I can’t show becoming sentiment on any subject except pones and such coffee as I have not tasted for a long time.”