Late one afternoon Miss Lou, feeling a little stronger, went to Aun’ Jinkey’s cabin and sat down on the doorstep.

“Oh, mammy,” she sighed, “I’m so tired, I’m so tired; yet I can do nothing at all.”

“You po’ lil chile,” groaned Aun’ Jinkey, “how dif’ernt you looks ner w’en you fus sot dar en wish sump’n happen.”

“Oh,” cried the girl almost despairingly, “too much has happened! too much has happened!  How can God let such troubles come upon us?”

“Eben Uncle Lusthah hab ter say he dunno.  He say he des gwine ter hole on twel de eend, en dat all he kin do.”

“Oh, mammy, I’m all at sea.  I haven’t any strength to hold on and there doesn’t seem anything to hold on to.  Oh, mammy, mammy, do you think he’s surely dead?”

“I feared he is,” groaned Aun’ Jinkey.  “Dey say he spook come arter Perkins en dat w’y de oberseer clared out.”

“Oh, horrible!” cried the girl.  “If his spirit could come here at all would it not come to me instead of to that brutal wretch?  Oh, mammy, I don’t know which is worse, your religion or your superstition.  You believe in a God who lets such things happen and you can think my noble friend would come back here only to scare a man like Perkins.  It’s all just horrible.  Oh, Allan, Allan, are you so lost to me that you can never look goodwill into my eyes again?”

Tears rushed to her eyes for the first time since she heard the dreadful tidings, and she sobbed in her mammy’s arms till exhausted.

That outburst of grief and the relief of tears given by kindly nature was the decisive point in Miss Lou’s convalescence.  She was almost carried back to her room and slept till late the following day.  When she awoke she felt that her strength was returning, and with it came the courage to take up the burdens of life.  For weeks it was little more than the courage of a naturally brave, conscientious nature which will not yield to the cowardice and weakness of inaction.  The value of work, of constant occupation, to sustain and divert the mind, was speedily learned.  Gradually she took the helm of outdoor matters from her uncle’s nerveless hands.  She had a good deal of a battle in respect to Chunk.  It was a sham one on the part of Zany, as the girl well knew, for Chunk’s “tootin’” was missed terribly.  Mr. and Mrs. Baron at first refused point-blank to hear of his returning.

“Uncle,” said his ward gravely, “is only your property at stake?  I can manage Chunk, and through him perhaps get others.  I am not responsible for changes which I can’t help; I am to blame if I sit down idly and helplessly and do nothing better than fret or sulk.  Your bitter words of protest are not bread and bring no money.  For your sakes as well as my own you must either act or let me act.”

The honorable old planter was touched at his most sensitive point, and reluctantly conceded, saying, “Oh, well, if you think you can save any of your property out of the wreck, employ Chunk on your own responsibility.”