There were protesting screams from the barn. They were instantly recognized as Little Sister’s. Uncle Jack glanced at her empty place, paled, kicked over two chairs and a setter dog which blocked the door, and rushed to the barn. A tragedy was on there. A negro stood in old Betty’s stall with an ax in his hand. On some straw in a far corner lay a sorry-looking colt. But it was not alone, for Little Sister stood over it, shaking her tiny fist at the black executioner, and screaming with grief and anger: "You shan’t kill this baby colt—you shan’t—don’t you come in here—don’t! How dare you, Jim?" The flash of her keen blue eyes had awed the negro in the doorway. He had stopped, hesitating, in confusion. "Go away, Jim," said Uncle Jack firmly. "Come, Little Sister, let us go back to grandpa." But for once in her life Uncle Jack had no influence over her. She was indignant, grieved. She fairly blazed through her tears and sobs: she would never speak to grandpa again as long as she lived! As for Jim, she would kill him as soon as she got big enough! She wouldn’t even speak to Uncle Jack unless he promised her that the baby colt should not be killed! "Poor little colt," she said as she put her arms around its neck and her tears fell over its big, soft eyes, "God sent you last night and they want to kill you to-day." Uncle Jack brushed away a tear himself and, stooping, picked up the colt’s feet, one at a time, examining the little filly. Little Sister watched him intently: to her mind Uncle Jack knew everything. The tears were still in her eyes when Uncle Jack looked up quickly and said in his jolliest way: "Hello, Little Sister, this filly is all right! Deformed be hanged! She’s sound as a hound’s tooth, just weak in her tendons and we can soon fix them. Give her a little time for strength. No, they’ll not kill her, little one—" and he caught the little girl up, giving her a hug. The tears gave way to a crackling little laugh. Little Sister was dancing in the straw for joy! What fun it was to help Uncle Jack fix her up! She brought him the cotton batting herself and gravely watched him as he made stays for the weak tendons and bent ankles. Finally, when he had the filly fixed and had called Jim, who held her in his arms to the mother’s flank until she had had a good breakfast, the little girl could not keep still. In a burst Of generosity she begged Jim’s pardon and said she intended to give him a pair of grandpa’s boots that very day. In return for this Jim promptly named the filly "Little Sister." But having once said that the colt was "no-count," the old General refused to notice it. "Po’ little thing," said he, a month after it was able to pace around without help from its stays, "po’ little thing! What a pity they didn’t kill it."