"To Jefferson City, dear, to see the Governor. I got word this
afternoon."

"In the rain?"

He smiled, and stooped to kiss her.

"Yes," he answered, "in the rain as far as the depot, I can trust you,
Jinny. And Lige's boat will be back from New Orleans to-morrow or
Sunday."

The next morning the city awoke benumbed, her heart beating but feebly.
Her commerce had nearly ceased to flow. A long line of boats lay idle,
with noses to the levee. Men stood on the street corners in the rain,
reading of the capture of Camp Jackson, and of the riot, and thousands
lifted up their voices to execrate the Foreign City below Market Street.
A vague terror, maliciously born, subtly spread. The Dutch had broken up
the camp, a peaceable state institution, they had shot down innocent
women and children. What might they not do to the defenceless city under
their victorious hand, whose citizens were nobly loyal to the South? Sack
it? Yes, and burn, and loot it. Ladies who ventured out that day crossed
the street to avoid Union gentlemen of their acquaintance.

It was early when Mammy Easter brought the news paper to her mistress.
Virginia read the news, and ran joyfully to her aunt's room. Three times
she knocked, and then she heard a cry within. Then the key was turned and
the bolt cautiously withdrawn, and a crack of six inches disclosed her
aunt.

"Oh, how you frightened me, Jinny!" she cried. "I thought it was the