“You are a Yankee girl.  And that means you must always try to protect other people who need protection,” said her father.

Sylvia’s face brightened.  She could easily understand that.  It meant that she must not let Estralla get a whipping when she had not deserved it; and she was glad she had not told the real story of the broken pitcher.  She resolved always to remember what her father had said.

The remainder of the week passed pleasantly.  Elinor Mayhew did not return to school, and the other girls profited by her example and no longer teased or taunted the little northern girl.

Saturday morning proved to be perfect weather for the drive to the Hayes plantation.  The sun shone, the clear October air was full of autumnal fragrance, and when the Hayes carry-all, drawn by two pretty brown horses, and driven by black Chris, the Hayes coachman, and Flora’s black mammy on the seat beside him, stopped in front of Sylvia’s house and Flora came running up the path, Sylvia and Grace were on the steps all ready to start.

There was plenty of room for all three girls on the back seat, and Flora declared that Sylvia should sit between Grace and herself.  Mrs. Fulton and Estralla stood at the gate and watched the happy little party drive off.  Estralla looked very sober.  Ever since the adventure at Fort Sumter the little colored girl had felt that she must look after Missy Sylvia carefully.  And she was not well pleased to see her young mistress disappear from her watchful eyes.

“What a funny name ‘Estralla’ is,” laughed Flora, as Sylvia called back a good-bye.

“Oh, that isn’t her name, really,” explained Grace.  “You know my Uncle Robert owns her, and Auntie Connie named her after Aunt Esther and Cousin Alice.  Her name is really Esther Alice.  But the colored people never speak as we do.”

“How can anybody ‘own’ anybody else, even if their skin is black?” asked Sylvia.

Both her companions looked at her in such evident surprise that Sylvia was sure she ought not to have asked such a question.  Suddenly she remembered that Flora’s “Mammy” and “Uncle Chris,” as Flora called him, were negroes, and of course must have heard.  She resolved not to ask another question during her visit.

Their way took them through pleasant streets shaded by spice trees and an occasional oak.  From behind high walls came the fragrance of orange blossoms, ripening pomegranates and grapes.  Very soon they had crossed the Ashley River, and now the road ran between broad fields of cotton where negroes were already at work gathering the white fluffy crop which would be packed in bags and bales and shipped to many far distant ports.

The three little friends talked gaily of the pleasant visit which had just begun.  Sylvia was hoping that Flora would again speak of the promised ride on one of the white ponies, but not until Uncle Chris guided the swift horses into the driveway, shaded by fine live-oaks, which led to the big house, was her wish gratified.