But beneath all this childish play of fancy, one grave, sorrowful thought lay heavy upon Edith’s tender heart.  It was the thought of poor old Luckenough “deserted at its utmost need” to the ravages of the foe.  Then came the question if it were not possible, in case of the house being attacked, to save it—­even for her to save it.  While these things were brewing in Edith’s mind, she rode slowly and more slowly, until at length her pony stopped.  Then she noticed for the first time the heavy, downcast looks of her attendants.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

“Oh!  Miss Edith, don’t ask me, honey—­don’t!  Ain’t we-dem got to go back to de house and stay dar by our two selves arter we see you safe?” said Jenny, crying.

“No! what? you two alone!” exclaimed Edith, looking from one to the other.

“Yes, Miss Edith, ’deed we has, chile—­but you needn’t look so ’stonish and ‘mazed.  You can’t help of it, chile.  An’ if de British do come dar and burn de house and heave we-dem into de fire jes’ out of wanton, it’ll only be two poor, ole, unvaluable niggers burned up.  Ole marse know dat well enough—­dat’s de reason he resks we.”

“But for what purpose have you to return?” asked Edith, wondering.

“Oh! to feed de cattle and de poultry? and take care o’ de things dat’s lef behine,” sobbed Jenny, now completely broken down by her terrors.  “I know—­I jis does—­how dem white niggers o’ Co’bu’ns ‘ill set de house o’ fire, an’ heave we-dem two poor old innocen’s into de flames out’n pure debblish wanton!”

Edith passed her slender fingers through her curls, stringing them out as was her way when absent in thought.  She was turning the whole matter over in her mind.  She might possibly save the mansion, though these two old people were not likely to be able to do so—­on the contrary, their ludicrous terrors would tend to stimulate the wanton cruelty of the marauders to destroy them with the house.  Edith suddenly took her resolution, and turned her horse’s head, directing her attendants to follow.

“But where are you going to go, Miss Edith?” asked her groom, Oliver, now speaking for the first time.

“Back to Luckenough.”

“What for, Miss Edith, for goodness sake?”

“Back to Luckenough to guard the dear old house, and take care of you two.”

“But oh, Miss Edy!  Miss Edy! for Marster in heaven’s sake what’ll come o’ you?”

“What the Master in heaven wills!”

“Lord, Lord, Miss Edy! ole marse ’ill kill we-dem.  What ’ill old marse say?  What ‘ill everybody say to a young gal a-doin’ of anything like dat dar?  Oh, dear! dear! what will everybody say?”

“They will say,” said Edith, “if I meet the enemy and save the house—­they will say that Edith Lance is a heroine, and her name will be probably preserved in the memory of the neighborhood.  But if I fail and lose my life, they will say that Edith was a cracked-brained girl who deserved her fate, and that they had always predicted she would come to a bad end.”