“Pears to me dat eberyting goes wrong,” Aunt Lois said, as she stopped in her mixing bread, and gazed out upon the landscape, which was beautiful to look upon. But Aunt Lois was no poet or artist, only the colored cook in this lovely home. “Fust de wall cum--den Massa Mason brung home to die, and pretty Missie Helen sitting dar in her bodoor all alone all day, neber speaking a word to po' Miss Marie, who lubed her father dearly. Don't I know dat po' little gal is breaking her heart 'tween losing dat foolish man and her dear father?” “Lois--Aunt Lois!” a sweet and girlish voice called. “What is it, honey--Ise coming!” Before she could take her hands from the dough a slender young girl, whose pure face would have made the veriest stranger admire it, burst into the kitchen, and sank in a heap at the feet of the old negress, who, now actually alarmed, seized her by the arm, and with a look of anxiety on her black face, asked the girl what had happened. “I've seen him--seen Walter. They said he was dead. Oh, Aunt Lois, he looked so brave, so happy. I never thought he _could_ look happy again,” and the tears streamed down her face. “Now cum here, chile, and sit in yo' old auntie's lap as yo' used to when yo' was a tiny gal, and I used to tell yo' stories and sing de old plantation melodies. Come, and you'll forgit all about yo' trubbles.” Lois had cleared her hands by this time of the dough, and as she took the girl by the hand, a loud rap sounded on the outside door. “Oh, look, there's a whole lot of soldiers on the lawn, but he ain't with them!” Marie added, as she peered from the window. “Ise not afraid of sogers! What do you want?” Aunt Lois said, boldly advancing to the door, where a tall soldier in blue stood, with a dozen men, all armed. “Hello!” he said rather roughly, but catching sight of Marie, whose face was blanched with {281}terror, he spoke more courteously: “I beg pardon, Miss, but we are in search of a spy who goes by the name of Walter Ryder. We have tracked him to this place, and have orders to arrest him.” “My--” she choked the telltale words, and with dignity answered: “Walter Ryder is not a spy, neither is he here.” “I regret the necessity, Miss, but I must search the house.” “You can,” she said, haughtily. Leaving the soldiers posted around the house, the sergeant and two of the men entered the dwelling, and commenced the search, but it was useless, for no trace of Walter was found. When they came to the door of Helen's room, they found it locked, and yet they heard voices. “I thought you were dead,” some one was saying. “My sister has mourned you constantly.” They struck the butts of their guns against the panels of the door, and demanded admission, but no one answered. They pushed it open, and the girl who sat there sprang to her feet, thoroughly frightened, but no one else was in the room.