“I will see that our men are well cared for.  I am not responsible for the others.”

“But I am, and all must fare alike.  Cook, prepare a nice light breakfast for all the wounded men before you do anything else.”

“Yes, mars’r, I ’bey you, I sut’ny will.”

Scoville strode away to attend to other duties.  Mrs. Baron glared after him and then at Aun’ Suke, who at once began her work.

“Do you mean to say that you’ll take no more orders from me?” the old lady asked, in tones of suppressed anger.

“Kyant do mo’ ‘n one ting ter oncet.  Ob co’se I git yo’ breakfas’ when I kin.  Reck’n dough we soon hab ter disergree on my wages.  I’se a free ooman.”

“Oh, you are free and I am not.  That’s the new order of things your Yankee friends would bring about.”

“La now, misus,” said matter-of-fact Aun’ Suke, again shaking with mirth at the idea, “you got mo’ edication ‘n me.  Wat de use bein’ blin’ des on puppose?  Spose you en ole mars’r tell me dat ain’ a egg” (holding one up):  “kyant I see?  Hit’s broad sun-up.  Why not des look at tings ez dey iz?  Sabe a heap ob trouble.  Yere, you lil niggahs, hep right smart or you neber get yo’ breakfas’.”

Mrs. Baron went back to the house looking as if the end of the world had come instead of the millennium.

In the hall she met her husband and Mrs. Whately, to whom she narrated what had occurred.  Mr. Baron had settled down into a sort of sullen endurance, and made no answer, but Mrs. Whately began earnestly:  “Our very dignity requires that we have no more collisions with a power we cannot resist.  Even you, sister, must now see that you gain nothing and change nothing.  We can be merely passive in our hostility.  The only course possible for us is to endure this ordeal patiently and then win Louise over to our wishes.”

Miss Lou, who was dusting the parlor, stole to the further end of the apartment and rattled some ornaments to warn them of her presence.  She smiled bitterly as she muttered, “Our wishes; mine will never be consulted.”

Mrs. Whately entered the parlor and kissed her niece affectionately.  She did not like the girl’s expression and the difficulty of her task grew clearer.  Nevertheless, her heart was more set on the marriage than ever before, since her motives had been strengthened by thought.  That her son was bent upon it was one of the chief considerations.  “If I obtain for him this prize,” she had reasoned, “he must see that there is no love like a mother’s.”

Miss Lou, also, had been unconsciously revealing her nature to the sagacious matron, who felt the girl, if won, would not become a pretty toy, soon wearying her son by insipidity of character.  “I know better,” the lady thought, “than to agree with brother and sister that Louise is merely wilful and perverse.”  Feeling that she was incapable of controlling her son, she would be glad to delegate this task to the one who had the