Dorothea had grown to be one of the family and her aunt treated her as if she were another daughter. Harriot was her devoted slave, and at first April had shown a fondness for her English cousin, which she had been quick to return. But there was none of the close intimacy between the two that Dorothea would have welcomed. And the cause of this was not far to seek. Even Dorothea realized that a certain change had come in her feelings toward the rights and wrongs of the war. It was impossible for her to respond to April’s enthusiastic support of everything the Confederacy represented. Nor could she condemn the North in all things with the fervor April expected of those who claimed sympathy with the South. Always there was the remembrance of her visit to Mr. Lincoln. When she heard the Union execrated with unmeasured bitterness she pictured in her mind the tall, gentle man in Washington into whose eyes she had looked. There she had read the truth, and knew that he had none of the sordid qualities that were attributed to him by his unreasoning enemies. Dorothea did not believe that he could be wrong in his efforts to solve the great problems confronting him, for she knew that his heart held a great sympathy for the South. Thus as the summer passed she began to realize that a change was taking place in her thoughts about the conflict. And at about the same time she felt that her relations with April had grown strained. She only became aware of it gradually when she noted that her beautiful cousin was apt to leave the room where she was. There were no longer any of the little demonstrations of affection that had marked their earlier intimacy. Constantly she caught April’s eyes upon her as if she was watched with suspicion. There was no act or word that Dorothea could lay hold of, yet all the time she realized a widening of the breach between them. One rainy morning in the Autumn, Dorothea had gone out on the porch to look for some sign of clearing weather, when her attention was attracted by two drenched figures coming slowly up the drive toward the house. They were colored servants, one an old woman and the other quite a lad, and they were in a truly pitiable state. They were soaked through and their clothing clung to them, dripping water as they walked. At sight of Dorothea they hastened their steps and, arriving at the porch, begged to be permitted to see “Ol’ Miss.” Dorothea brought them in out of the wet and went in search of her aunt, whom she found in the weaving-room. Together they returned to the porch, and at sight of the forlorn couple Mrs. May gave an exclamation of surprise. “Why, Aunt Dilsey, is it you?” she cried. “What brings you here on a day like this?” For answer the old woman threw herself on her knees at Mrs. May’s feet, her brown face working convulsively. “Sam and me—we’s done run away!” she sobbed.