that. She had not stopped to consider what the result might be if she
helped Calhoun to escape. Her only thought was to save him from going to
prison. To do this she would dare anything.

The colored man of whom she spoke was to be at the farm in the morning to
do some work. A fear had seized her that she might be too late. The fear
was well grounded. The authorities at Columbus had resolved to move
Calhoun at once. The request of Doctor Hopkins, that he be allowed to
remain two weeks longer, although he said he could be removed without
danger, aroused their suspicion. Not only that, but the letter of Andrew
Harmon to Mr. Crawford had alarmed that gentleman, and he was already on
his way home.

Abram Prather, the colored man, was seen by Joyce as soon as he made his
appearance.

"Missy Joyce, I jes' do enything fo' yo.' Me an' de ol' woman will keep
him all right."

So everything was arranged. Joyce breathed freer, yet she waited
impatiently for the night.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE ESCAPE.

The day was a long and weary one to Calhoun. Between the joy of knowing he
was to be free and his misery over the thought that he must part with
Joyce, his soul was alternately swept with conflicting emotions. Then he
had seen so little of her during the day; she seemed more distant than she
did before she declared her love. How he longed to take her in his arms,
to have her head rest on his breast once more! But she had said that
although it was the first it was to be the last time. What did she mean?
Ah! it must be that he could never embrace her again, never touch her lips
again, until her father had consented to their marriage. When the war was
over he would wring that consent from him.

The thought brought contentment. Yes, it was better that they should part.
Then the news of the terrible battle of Chickamauga had just come, and it
had fired his very soul. The South had won a great victory. Surely this
was the beginning of the end. Independence was near, the war would soon be
at an end, and he longed to be in at the finish. The excitement of war was
once more running riot through his veins.

He little thought of the sacrifice Joyce was making, of the fierce
conflicts she was having with her conscience. She knew that she was doing
wrong, that she was proving a traitor to the flag she loved, that she was
aiding and abetting the enemy; but it was one, onl