d to the intricacies of such
questions.

"I don't understand even half the reasons back of the war," she
confessed, "but the thing I do understand is that the black man is
likely to have a chance for freedom if the North wins, and that's the
one question to me. Miss Evilena said yesterday it was all a turmoil
got up by Yankee politicians who will fill their pockets by it."

"Oh, that was after Judge Clarkson's call; she only quoted him in
that, and he is right in a way," she added; "there is a great deal of
political jugglery there without a vestige of patriotism in it, but
they do not in the least represent the great heart of the people of
the North; _they_ are essentially humanitarians. So you see I weigh
all this, with my head, not my heart," she added, quizzically, "and
having done so--having chosen my part--I can't turn back in the face
of the enemy, even when met by smiles, though I confess they are hard
weapons to face. It is a battle where the end to be gained justifies
the methods used."

"_Ma belle_, Marquise," murmured the girl, in the untranslatable
caress of voice and eyes. "Sometimes I grow afraid, and you scatter
the fear by your own fearlessness. Sometimes I grow weak, and you
strengthen me with reasons, reasons, reasons!"

"That is because the heart is not allowed to hamper the head."

"Oh, you tease me. You speak to me like a guardian angel of my people;
your voice is like a trumpet, it stirs echoes in my heart, and the
next minute you laugh as though it were all a play, and I were a child
to be amused."

"'And each man in his time plays many parts,'" quoted Judithe,
thoughtfully, then with a mocking glance she added: "But not so many
as women do."

"There--that is what I mean. One moment you are all seriousness and
the next--"

"But, my child, it is criminal to be serious all the time; it kills
the real life and leads to melancholia. You would grow morbid through
your fears if I did not laugh at them sometimes, and it would
never--never do for me to approve them."

She touched the girl's hand softly with her own and looked at her with
a certain affectionate chiding.

"You are going away from me, Louise, and you must not go in dread or
despondency. It may not be for long, perhaps, but even if it should
be, you must remember that I love you--I trust you. I pity you for the
childhood and youth whose fate was no choice of yours. Never forget my
trust in you; when we are apart it may comfort