they kept quiet and obeyed. It was evident to both of them that the
approach of Union forces, though yet comparatively distant, had
produced the usual demoralizing effects. The government at The Oaks
had not been harsh, but it had been strict and animated by a spirit
which alienated sympathy. The situation was now seen to be too
critical to admit of severity, all the more as the protection of
Whately and his troopers might soon be withdrawn.

It was a silent and depressing meal to which they sat down that
evening, long after the accustomed hour, a fact which Mr. Baron
would not forget, even in the throes of an earthquake. He groaned
over it; he groaned over everything, and especially over his niece,
who had suddenly developed into the most unmanageable element in the
whole vexed problem of the future. He felt that they owed her very
much, and that she held the balance of power through her influence
over the negroes; and yet he was incensed that she was not meek and
submissive as a young woman should be under all circumstances. An
angry spot burned in each of Mrs. Baron's cheeks, for she felt that
Miss Lou's conduct reflected very unfavorably on her bringing up.
She was so scandalized and vexed that she could scarcely think of
anything else. Mrs. Whately was all deprecation and apology, trying
to pour oil on the troubled waters in every way, while her son was
as savagely angry at himself as he had been at poor Aun' Jinkey and
her grandson.

Most fortunately the main feature in the case remained undiscovered.
The fact that a Union scout had been hidden and permitted to depart
would have been another bombshell, and the consequences of its
explosion would have been equally hard to predict or circumscribe.
As it was, Miss Lou and Aun' Jinkey received a certain remorseful