“I do’ want it.”

“Well, your girl’s going, anyway.  I don’t blame her for leaving such a fool as you are.”

Gideon turned and looked at him.

“The camp is going to be moved up on this plantation, and there will be a requisition for this house for officers’ quarters, so I’ll see you again,” and Captain Griswold went his way.

Martha going!  Martha going!  Gideon could not believe it.  He would not.  He saw her, and she confirmed it.  She was going as an aid to the nurses.  He gasped, and went back to mind the women-folks.

They did move the camp up nearer, and Captain Griswold came to see Gideon again, but he could get no word from him, save “I’m goin’ to stay,” and he went away in disgust, entirely unable to understand such obstinacy, as he called it.

    [Illustration:  “‘It’s freedom, Gideon.’”]

But the slave had his moments alone, when the agony tore at his breast and rended him.  Should he stay?  The others were going.  He would soon be free.  Every one had said so, even his mistress one day.  Then Martha was going.  “Martha!  Martha!” his heart called.

The day came when the soldiers were to leave, and he went out sadly to watch them go.  All the plantation, that had been white with tents, was dark again, and everywhere were moving, blue-coated figures.

Once more his tempter came to him.  “I’ll make it twenty dollars,” he said, but Gideon shook his head.  Then they started.  The drums tapped.  Away they went, the flag kissing the breeze.  Martha stole up to say good-bye to him.  Her eyes were overflowing, and she clung to him.

“Come, Gidjon,” she plead, “fu’ my sake.  Oh, my God, won’t you come with us—­it’s freedom.”  He kissed her, but shook his head.

“Hunt me up when you do come,” she said, crying bitterly, “fu’ I do love you, Gidjon, but I must go.  Out yonder is freedom,” and she was gone with them.

He drew out a pace after the troops, and then, turning, looked back at the house.  He went a step farther, and then a woman’s gentle voice called him, “Gideon!” He stopped.  He crushed his cap in his hands, and the tears came into his eyes.  Then he answered, “Yes, Mis’ Ellen, I’s a-comin’.”

He stood and watched the dusty column until the last blue leg swung out of sight and over the grey hills the last drum-tap died away, and then turned and retraced his steps toward the house.

Gideon had triumphed mightily.

MAMMY PEGGY’S PRIDE

In the failing light of the midsummer evening, two women sat upon the broad veranda that ran round three sides of the old Virginia mansion.  One was young and slender with the slightness of delicate girlhood.  The other was old, black and ample,—­a typical mammy of the old south.  The girl was talking in low, subdued tones touched with a note of sadness that was strange in one of her apparent youth, but which seemed as if somehow in consonance with her sombre garments.