“We were singing and the negroes are always attracted by music,” Miss Imogene explained; but at the same moment she put an arm about Dorothea’s waist and drew her close to her. The girl felt instinctively an effort on the part of both Miss Imogene and April to intervene before she was forced to speak. She could not see the reasons for this. She was perplexed and puzzled at such evasion, but it satisfied her to remain silent, though why either of them should wish to shield an escaping Yankee was a mystery. At that moment one of the great hounds lifted up its head and bayed dismally and in an instant the others, their noses close to the ground, made for the spot and joined in a chorus. “They’ve found the scent again,” some one cried. “Come on, men. If our bird was here he’s gone on!” There was a hurried beat of horses’ hoofs as their riders wheeled and started at a gallop behind the dogs. “Sorry to have disturbed you, ladies,” came the voice of the leader out of the darkness, “but we have to catch this Yankee!” The sounds of their rapid movements grew fainter and fainter and finally ceased as the men drew away. At last all was silent again. And all the while Dorothea had stood beside Miss Imogene, wondering if the man she had seen would be taken, puzzled by the strange conflict and mystery which she felt surrounded her, getting no reasonable explanation for this obvious intervention by April and Miss Imogene to keep her in the background. The woman beside her shivered a little and a long sigh escaped her lips. “I’m cold, child,” she murmured, and releasing Dorothea went to the fire and held her tiny hands to the dying blaze. The girl herself felt a chill in the air and, closing the window, went to the hearth for warmth. “Shall I put on another log, Miss Imogene?” she asked. “Do, honey,” said the elder woman; “I don’t know whether it’s my nerves or the night air, but I haven’t felt so chilly for a long time.” Dorothea put on another stick of wood and sat down at Miss Imogene’s feet, watching while the fire kindled. It was plain that her companion was overwrought and she herself had no desire to talk. Her brain kept going over and over again the puzzling points in the night’s experience and she could make neither head nor tail out of it all. Nor could she rid herself of the horror of these great dogs tearing across the country while the vision of the haggard face she had seen at the window still haunted her. Would they catch him at last? Would these mouthing hounds surround the poor fellow, perhaps in some swamp where he had fled, half dead with privations and hunger, to escape them? She, too, shivered at the thought. “What is it, dear?” asked Miss Imogene, bending down to the girl at her feet. “I can’t help thinking of that poor man they are after,” she answered in a low tone. “It seems so awful to hunt human beings with dogs.”