“Thank God!” echoed the girl faintly. “Safe! Oh, Captain, Captain!” and she burst into a passion of weeping.

“Why, my little heroine, what does this mean?” cried Captain Leathers dismayed. “You were cool enough through that fire of grape and canister. ‘Ready to die,’ you said; ‘just so that you could die standing.’ It was enough to frighten the bravest man, yet you were not afraid. And now you break down?”

“Leab her ter me, massa,” said old Tenny coming up on deck. “Jest you leab dat chile ter ole Tenny. Ef dis night ain’t been enuff ter make an angel weep den I dunno nuffin. Lawsie, massa! I’se been suah dat I wuz daid fer de las’ hour. Fiah an’ brimstone nebber scare me no mo’. De bad man ain’t got no wuss ter gib dan dis has been, an’ I knows it. Come, chile! Come, honey! Ole Tenny’ll put yer ter bed now.”

“Yes; that is the best place for her,” said the Captain as the girl continued to sob uncontrollably. “I’ll carry her down, Tenny, and you see to her.”

He lifted Jeanne up bodily in his arms, and bore her into the cabin picking his way carefully through the débris scattered about.

“I–I can’t help but cry,” sobbed Jeanne with an effort at self-control.

“It’s all right, my little girl. Cry all you want to. You are nervous and overwrought. I feel as if I’d like to do the same if I wasn’t a man. Sleep well because you are safe now, and you won’t have any more of this to go through. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” murmured Jeanne and presently she grew calm under Tenny’s soothing ministrations.

CHAPTER IX
JEANNE MEETS THE HERO OF NEW ORLEANS

“What! have we reached Commodore Farragut? He said ‘Commodore’ didn’t he, Tenny?” inquired Jeanne, who did not know that Farragut had been recently made a rear admiral.

“No, honey; he said ’Miral, I’se suah,” returned the negress.

Jeanne dressed quickly and then hastened to Captain Leathers.

“How are you this morning, Jeanne?” was the Captain’s salutation. “Pretty thankful to be on earth, aren’t you? Admiral,” turning to a slight, modest looking middle aged man with gray hair, “this is the girl I was telling you about. She stood fire last night like a veteran.”

“You have shown yourself to be a true heroine,” said Admiral Farragut taking her hand. “It is not often that we meet such courage in one so young.”

“I never heard that you were deficient in this quality,” said the Captain. “Seems to me that I’ve heard of a number of your exploits when you were a lad.”

“I was a boy, Captain. One expects such things from a lad but a tender, delicate little girl,”–and he smiled such a winning smile at Jeanne that she involuntarily drew closer to him,–“that is decidedly different. Boys take to such things naturally unless they are molly coddles. Were you not afraid, little girl?”

“Not until it was over,” answered Jeanne shyly. “But it was a dreadful time. I can’t help thinking of those poor men on the gunboat––” Her voice faltered and her eyes filled with tears.

“Yes, child.” The Admiral pressed her hand warmly. “That is the worst part of it. To lose such gallant fellows is one of the hard things of war. And yet–there is no nobler death than to fall in defense of one’s country. But the Captain tells me that you have a message for me.”

“Yes, sir. I have a letter from my father to Commodore Porter, and General Wallace added a few lines for you. I will get it.”

She ran to her stateroom and soon returned with the letter. “It is for any one on our side to read,” she said, as Farragut hesitated slightly.

“In that case,” smiled the Admiral. “I will read it. So, my little one, it is very necessary for you to get to New Orleans? You are young to be sent on business for the government. Tell me what led you to undertake such a thing.”

“Because I love my country and wished to do something for her,” replied Jeanne so fervently that Farragut’s face kindled in response.

“Well said,” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “That’s the stuff I wish that all Americans were made of. But have you no mother?”

“I have a dear mother,” answered Jeanne quickly. “She was quite willing for me to come as it was necessary. She made me this flag,” drawing it from her bosom, “and told me that not even for life itself must I betray it. I have kissed it every night,” continued the girl caressing its folds fondly, “and I keep it right over my heart that no traitorous thought may enter there.”

“My dear child,” a tear glistened in the Admiral’s eye, “you are a brave girl and have a noble mother. So long as America can produce such women there will be no fear for the Union. You shall get to New Orleans as quickly as possible. If it were needful I would clear a passage with my guns. But that will not be necessary. You will soon see the end of your journey. Would that all messengers were as brave as you have shown yourself.”

“Perhaps they would be if they could meet with such treatment as I have, sir. Some of them are very bold and daring, and run fearful risks. I have heard my father tell of their narrow escapes. And some of them,” and her eyes grew sorrowful, “never get back. I have done nothing compared with what many of them have done.”

“It is a great deal,” said Farragut kindly. “More than most girls could do.”

And so petted and made much of by officers and men the girl made the rest of her journey down the river without incident. The entire fleet of Farragut was brought to New Orleans because the Admiral realized the futility of taking Vicksburg without troops to hold it. General Butler at New Orleans had none to send him, and Halleck dawdled at Corinth most inexplicably. Many of the men were prostrated by fever and rest was a necessity.

Into the crescent shaped harbor upon which the city stood the fleet came to anchor, and Jeanne, full of anticipation at the thought of seeing her uncle and the successful termination of her mission, stood ready to go ashore. Captain Leathers came to her side.

“You are to go with Admiral Farragut,” he said. “He will take you to General Butler who will know just where to find your uncle.”

“Thank you,” said Jeanne gratefully. “How kind you have been to me, Captain Leathers. I will never forget you.”

“And I will never forget you,” said the Captain heartily. “When people brave death together it always makes them feel a sort of kinship, don’t you think? And at any time you want to go back I’ll carry you if I am here.”

“Thank you,” said the girl again. They shook hands and the Captain started to lead her ashore when Tenny ran after them.

“Shorely you ain’t gwine ter leab without tellin’ ole Tenny good-bye, is yer?” she panted.

“No, no, Tenny. I hope to see you soon again,” said Jeanne warmly for she had conceived a real regard for the faithful creature. “And I won’t forget about Snowball.”

“Bress yer haht, I knows yer won’t. Ole Tenny nebber cease ter gib thanks dat she hab met yer. Good-bye, honey.”

“Good-bye,” said Jeanne again and then she followed the Captain down the cotton platform, which was raised above the levee for the convenient loading of cotton, to the levee itself, and along the banks to DeLord Street where they were joined by Admiral Farragut. Jeanne bade the Captain adieu and then walked slowly by the Admiral’s side through the busy streets en route for the St. Charles Hotel where General Butler had his headquarters. The city had recovered something of its former activity, and wore its accustomed garb of careless gaiety and business bustle.

The markets were bright once more with red bandannas and noisy with the many-tongued chatter of the hucksters: Creole, Spanish, French, German and English. A perfect babel of tongues, and louder, more obstreperous and broader mouthed than all others rose the gleeful negro laughter.

The day was warm and bright, and the mulatto women with baskets of cakes, figs, pomegranates, bananas, crape myrtles and oleanders, filled the air with their musical negro cries as they vended their wares. Nurses with children wearing Madras kerchiefs of bright colors, wrinkled negro mammies, Creoles with French or Spanish descent plainly delineated upon their features and soldiers, clad in the United States uniform, thronged the banquettes and streets.

Jeanne looked about her with curiosity, for the quaint old city presented a thoroughly different aspect to the cities of the North. Many of the people were of sullen countenance, some of them taking no pains to conceal their dislike to their conquerors. The stars and stripes hung everywhere. Hundreds of flags hung over the banquettes and in some places ropes of them were stretched across the streets. To her amazement Jeanne saw a well dressed woman go out into the street to avoid walking under a flag which hung over the banquette. A soldier seized her unceremoniously and forced her to pass under the emblem. With freezing hauteur the woman raised her parasol and interposed its shelter between her and the offending flag.

“Verily, Butler hath his hands full,” quoth the Admiral, and then he added: “You wished to find your uncle, did you not?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Jeanne, trying to overcome her astonishment at what she saw. “And yet I don’t know whether I should find him first or not.”

“Why?” asked the Admiral in surprise.

“You know, sir, that I came down here on business,” and as he nodded assent she continued. “My father sent some papers to be given to a man here in the service of the government. I have always said that I was going to Uncle Ben, but he is not the man. Father told me not to mention the name until I reached New Orleans and then only to some one I could trust. The man’s name is John Archer. Now do you think I should go to him or to Uncle Ben first? I suppose Uncle Ben would help me find him.”

“I should find the man, child. In every case when performing a duty finish that first before doing anything else. You have shown great prudence in not mentioning the name before. General Butler will of course know this Archer, and will see that you see him. Then I know that he will gladly find your uncle for you.”

“I will do just as you say for you know best. How glad father will be when he learns how you have helped me.”

“Ought you not to send him some word?”

“I will just as soon as I can say that I have delivered the papers to Mr. Archer. He will be so pleased. Then I will visit Uncle Ben until father says for me to come home. Isn’t it queer, Admiral, I have never seen my uncle?”

“You have not? But you have heard from him?”

“No, sir; he came South years ago. Long before I was born, but my father always thought so much of him that I will be glad to see him.”

“In that case the very wisest thing to do is to find John Archer,” said Farragut emphatically. “This is the St. Charles, child.”

They paused before the famous structure. A broad piazza supported by pillars overarched with stone ran along the front, making an imposing entrance. The building was a handsome one, and famed at one time as the finest hotel in the States.

Admiral Farragut and his charge were soon admitted to General Butler’s presence. The General had chosen the ladies’ parlor as his official headquarters. The room was filled with orderlies and sergeants each intent upon the performance of some duty. In the midst of them sat General Butler. He received his visitors courteously. His name familiar to every American, spoken of by some in terms of highest praise, and by others with opprobrium, made Jeanne shrink a little closer to Farragut’s side as the General greeted them. He was of imposing presence. Not tall, but of well-developed form and fine massive head; not graceful in movement but of firm solid aspect; self-possessed and slow of speech.

“This is a great pleasure, Admiral,” he exclaimed with heartiness. “Welcome back to New Orleans.”

“Thank you, General,” returned Farragut. “I should be glad to be here could I feel that I have not left unfinished my work behind me.”

“Vicksburg then is still untaken?”

“I regret to answer, yes. But you are making progress here. You have begun a good work. I notice that the streets are being cleaned.”

“The condition of things demanded it,” returned Butler. “The quality of the climate is pernicious and wasting enough without having to brave the terror of yellow fever. It has been in self-defense.”

“It takes a strong hand to rule the city, does it not?”

“A strong hand? Yes. I am subjected to all sorts of abuse for my tyranny, as they call it; but this one measure the strongest rebel among them must approve. In time perhaps they will see the need of all. My administration may be vigorous, but of one thing rest assured: So long as Benjamin F. Butler stays in New Orleans the city shall acknowledge the absolute and unquestioned supremacy of the United States.”

“There is no doubt but that she will with you at the helm,” said the Admiral. “General, do you know a man by the name of Archer?”

“John Archer?” asked the General, giving a quick glance at him. “Well, to any one else, Admiral, I should dissemble; but to you I will say, yes. Why?”

“This girl,” pushing Jeanne forward, “has brought messages, papers, or something of that nature for him from New York City: I thought that perhaps you could arrange a meeting with him for her. After that she has an uncle in the city whom she wishes to find.”

“This girl?” General Butler eyed Jeanne keenly. “Rather young for a messenger, isn’t she?”

“In years, perhaps; but she ran the fire of the Vicksburg batteries in order to reach here.”

“Indeed!” General Butler looked at her more closely. “Do you know John Archer, child?”

“No, sir.”

“Orderly, bring in the man Archer,” commanded the General.

A look of surprise passed over Farragut’s face, but he made no remark. Presently the orderly returned with a man.

“Archer,” said the General quietly, “this girl has brought some papers for you.”

There was a startled expression on the man’s face, and he looked at Jeanne with something like apprehension. General Butler turned his attention to Admiral Farragut, and Jeanne was left face to face with the man whom she had come so far to see.

CHAPTER X
AN UNFORESEEN RESULT

“Why Richard Vance of New York City,” answered Jeanne in astonishment. She had inferred from what her father had said that John Archer would be well acquainted with the name. “He is my father, and he has sent me to you with some papers. If you are Mr. John Archer?”

“I am he,” answered the man, “but I know nothing about any papers.”

“I thought that you would,” murmured Jeanne. There seemed something strange to her in the way the man was acting. “My mother sewed them into my petticoat,” she continued with a growing reluctance against parting with them. “If there is any place where I could go I would get them. It seemed the best way to carry them.”

“Orderly,” interposed General Butler turning to them, “take the young lady to Mrs. Butler. My wife will gladly assist you,” he added to Jeanne.

“Thank you,” said Jeanne, gratefully hurrying after the Orderly. They soon reached the apartments set aside for the use of General Butler’s wife, and she herself opened the door in answer to the Orderly’s knock.

“Come right in,” she said cordially in response to Jeanne’s rapid explanation. “You are young to be sent on such an errand, my dear. But the times are such that we cannot always choose our messengers. Very often the young prove more reliable than older persons. You say that they are in your petticoat, my child?”

“Yes, ma’am,” returned Jeanne. “You see it made my frock stand out like crinoline and no one would think it was anything else.”

“And a good place it is too,” replied the lady busy with her scissors. “You have a thoughtful mother.”

“Mrs. Butler,” said the little girl suddenly after she and the lady had finished their task and the papers lay before them, “do you know John Archer?”

“No, child. Why?”

“He is the man to whom my father sent these papers,” said the girl thoughtfully. “Someway I do not like him. I wish he were not the man.”

“My dear,” reproved the lady gently, “we ought not to let our fancies dominate us. If the man came to the General’s rooms and was received there, rest assured that he is all right. The General has means of knowing whether a man is to be trusted or not.”

“True,” replied Jeanne, and feeling that it would be ungracious to give further expression to her distrust she went slowly back to the parlor. Why should she, a mere child, presume to doubt a man whom the General and even her own father trusted? “But I do wish,” sighed she as she opened the door of the apartment. “I do wish that he were not the man.”

“Here are the papers,” she said, going straight to Mr. Archer.

“Thank you.” Archer took the papers mechanically and without another word or look at her turned to the Orderly, and was conducted from the room.

Jeanne stood looking after him somewhat dismayed. Was this all? Some way she had thought, had expected it to be so different. Mr. Huntsworth, Captain Leathers, even the great Farragut had seemed to consider that she had done wonders in carrying the papers but this man thought nothing of her action. Tears of disappointment welled to her eyes.

“Never mind, child,” said Farragut seeing her distress. “Some people are so matter of fact that they suppose the whole world is of the same way of thinking. Besides, the consciousness of a good action is its own reward.”

“Ye-es,” said Jeanne, “I know that it ought to be. It says so in my copy-book. But I thought that it would be so different.”

“It would be a fine thing if all our acts would receive approbation,” remarked General Butler. “Brass bands and calcium lights are things that human nature craves for deeds well done, but they are seldom given. That is, until one dies.”

“Don’t be cynical, General,” laughed Farragut. “The child will find it out soon enough.”

“Yes; I suppose so,” replied Butler. “Didn’t you say something about an uncle, Admiral?”

“Yes; that is the next thing in order. She is to stay with him until her father tells her to return. Her uncle is Benjamin Vance.”

“Whe-ew,” whistled the General an expression of blank amazement on his face. “Did you say Benjamin Vance?”

“Certainly. Do you know him?”

“I do,” replied the General emphatically. “And this girl is his niece, and she brings papers down here to Archer? It is about the boldest thing I ever heard of!”

“Why! What do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you presently. Come here, girl. Do you hear often from your uncle?” he asked as Jeanne approached.

“No, sir. Father has not heard from him in years. He came South long before I was born, but I remembered that he lived here when I was getting father to let me bring the papers.”

“Isn’t it strange that you should have remembered it just at that time?” questioned Butler sharply.

“Why, no,” answered the girl regarding him with wide open eyes. “I have heard my father speak of Uncle Ben all my life, and when New Orleans was mentioned I always thought of him. So I said that I was coming to see Uncle Ben when I was truly bringing the papers to Mr. Archer. Father thought it was best.”

“I see. What is in the papers?”

“I don’t know, sir.” Jeanne looked at him so innocently that he was compelled to believe her.

“Well, you at least, are innocent, I do believe. Now, child, what else did you bring? Anything for your uncle?”

“I brought him some quinine,” answered Jeanne half laughing. “Father had it fixed for me in my lunch basket. He said if I should fall in with the rebels and they questioned me too closely I was to own up about it. See! here is the basket. The quinine is right down in this place.”

“I don’t understand about the thing,” said the General in a low tone to the Admiral. “The girl is either the most innocent person in the world and everything is exactly as she says, or she is a consummate actress, young as she is.”

“General, what in the world do you mean?” queried Farragut.

“I mean,” said General Butler sternly, “that it looks very much to me as if some mischief were afloat. John Archer is under arrest for disloyalty to the government. Naturally this makes it bad for the girl.”

“Then,” said Farragut gravely, “why did you permit him to have those papers?”

“He will not have them long. Did you not notice an Orderly go out after him?”

“I saw a man go out, but I thought nothing of it,” was the response.

“That man has his orders. Archer was relieved of the papers as soon as he left the room. I wanted to get all the evidence against him that I could hence I did not tell you about the matter at first. I thought that he might recognize the girl or she him.”

“I believe that you are wrong,” said Farragut earnestly. “I know nothing of course about Archer, but I would stake my life that what the girl says is true. It would be bold indeed to deliver documents serviceable to the enemy under our very noses.”

“The very boldness of the scheme would make it successful. Besides, the fellow’s arrest is recent. His accomplices in the North cannot possibly have heard of it as yet. He has been in the service of the Union until suspected of furnishing information to the enemy. You can see why the girl would deliver the papers before us. Another thing, her uncle, Benjamin Vance, is one of the worst rebels in the city.”

“What!” cried Farragut.

“Yes.”

“But she is too young to enter into any such scheme.”

“Ah! you do not know these people as I do. They are perfectly unscrupulous as regards ways and means when it comes to carrying a point. Do you know the girl’s father? I judged not from what you told me of meeting with her.”

“No,” admitted Farragut. “But she carried a letter to Commodore Porter with a few lines from Wallace at Memphis to me. Really you must be mistaken.”

“Letters can be forged,” said Butler sententiously. “And sometimes wheedled from officers, as we know to our sorrow. She may be but a tool of persons who hope that her youth will protect her from the consequences. You must confess that it looks bad. Ah, Johnson,” as his Orderly made his appearance, “did you get them?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jeanne started forward with a cry of amazement as the Orderly laid upon the table the very papers which she had given John Archer but a short time before.

General Butler spread them before him for inspection.

“You can see for yourself that they contain important information,” he said to Farragut. “This thing would be all right if Archer were loyal; otherwise it may show how it happens that the enemy obtains so much information that it should not. The girl is certainly an emissary of the Confederates.”

“A what?” cried Jeanne starting forward indignantly, for the General had raised his voice and she had overheard the last words. “What did you say, sir?”

“I said,” and the General turned to her abruptly and spoke sternly, “that unless you can prove otherwise, that you are sent with these papers to Archer for the rebels.”

“Why, my father sent me,” cried the girl blankly. “He is in the employ of the government and so is Mr. Archer.”

“Archer was until quite recently, but he is now under arrest on strong suspicion of giving information to the enemy. You see everything is known, child. Tell the truth. Who sent you here?”

“My father,” said Jeanne again, looking piteously from one to the other. “Oh, what does he mean, Admiral? What does he mean?”

“Child,” Farragut took her hand kindly. “Tell me truly. What is your father?”

“He is in the employ of the government,” reiterated Jeanne vehemently. “He sends communications all over the states, because he told me so. He said that telegraphs were not to be trusted, nor the mails either. For that reason people were sent to the different cities with information about the government.”

“That proves nothing,” said the General, “unless it can be substantiated. Why then do you want to visit your uncle–if you are loyal–when he is such a rebel?”

“A rebel?” cried Jeanne recoiling in horror. “Is my uncle a rebel?”

CHAPTER XI
CLEARED OF SUSPICION

“Did I not tell you? She came with Captain Leathers from Memphis. The transport, The Gem, joined us just below Vicksburg. He brought us supplies, and there is absolutely no question with regard to his sentiments. They have been proved over and over again.”

“Of course the girl may be all right and everything be just as she says,” said General Butler again. “As I say the thing in her favor is that she came here to ask for Archer. I suppose it was because she knew no one. Had she sought her uncle first––”

“I advised her to come here,” said Farragut in a low tone. “I told her to find Archer first, and then to seek for her uncle, and she acquiesced without hesitation.”

“I am afraid that she is deep. Of course the whole thing was concocted in New York City. They could not know that Archer had been arrested, and this information would have been sent to the Confederates as other plans have been. I tremble to think of the consequences had these papers fallen into their hands. Really, traitors are everywhere. I had hoped that the government had gotten rid of them by this time.”

Meantime Jeanne was just recovering from the shock of learning that her uncle was a rebel. She had not heard the conversation of the two officers, and now she came to Admiral Farragut turning to him instinctively in her distress.

“What shall I do?” she asked. “I can’t go to Uncle Ben if he is a rebel. Oh, what will father say!”

“I don’t know, child. What shall be done, General? You command here.”

“The girl must go to her uncle,” said the General decidedly. “There to remain until I sift this thing to the bottom. Meantime she must take the oath of allegiance to the United States.”

“The oath?” cried Jeanne. “Why should I take the oath, General Butler? I thought that it was only for those whose loyalty to the Union was doubted.”

“That is it precisely,” returned General Butler coldly. “If you are sincere in your avowed devotion to your country, the oath won’t hurt you. If you are not then you will either perjure yourself or else be registered as an open enemy to the United States.”

Jeanne was dumb with anguish. She, Jeanne Vance, an open enemy of the United States! Of the country for which she was ready to give her life! She gave one stricken glance at the austere man before her, and burst into tears.

“Come, come, General,” said Farragut laying a kindly hand on the girl’s bowed head, “you are too severe, aren’t you?”

“Not at all. Every man, woman and child in this city must take this oath, or be known as an enemy of the Union. It works no hardship if one is loyal, and acts as a restraining power on those who are not. The authority of the Union must be recognized while the city is under my charge.”

“Take the oath, child. That is, if you can do so conscientiously. But whatever be the consequences accept them as a brave girl, and perjure yourself for no man,” advised Farragut.

“I will,” said Jeanne chokingly. “It isn’t because of the oath that I feel bad, Admiral. It is because my loyalty to the Union has been doubted. Do you think that I would carry this,” and she drew the flag from the bosom of her dress, “if I were not for the Union? I kiss its folds each night, and with it before me, I pray for the success of my country.” She kissed it passionately as she spoke.

“That action speaks for itself,” remarked General Butler with such a change of tone that Jeanne looked up hastily. “No rebel woman or girl that I have ever known would kiss that flag. I have hard work to make them even walk under it. Forgive me, child, for doubting you, but treachery lurks under so many different forms that I am forced to suspect even children.”

“Suppose,” suggested the Admiral, relieved that the General had come to his way of thinking, “suppose you begin at the beginning and tell us all about this business. How many have you in the family?”

“Four,” answered Jeanne promptly, a little comfort creeping into her heart at the change in the General’s manner. “Father who works for the government, mother who is in the Monarch Relief Association, and Dick who is in the army.”

“Your brother is in the Union army?” queried the General.

“Yes, sir.”

“That is easily verified,” said the General, making a note of the fact. “Now how did you come to be sent down here?”

Jeanne recounted the circumstances of the affair rapidly not even omitting her mother’s parting words of counsel. Both men listened with close attention.

“And you knew nothing whatever of your Uncle Ben?” asked Butler when she had finished.

“No, sir; father has not heard from him in many years. He will be grieved to learn that he is a rebel,” and her eyes filled with tears.

“I have no doubt of it. Now, my little girl, I am going to send you to your uncle until I can look up the truth of your story.”

“Couldn’t you send me home?” asked the girl wistfully, a sudden yearning possessing her for the refuge of her mother’s arms.

“I will soon. There are dangers by land and by sea, and, as your father told you to wait until you heard from him, I think that it would be wise to do so. It will be best for you to see for yourself what manner of man your uncle is so that you can tell your father. Good-bye,” and he held out his hand. “Come in to see me sometimes while you are here.”

“Good-bye,” said Jeanne, shaking hands with him as in duty bound. She gave him a look of reproach and then turned to Farragut.

“This has been a hard trial for you, child,” said the Admiral. “You have come through with colors flying though. I believe that you always will.”

“It has taught me,” said the girl with quivering lips, “that there are worse things than cannon balls and grape shot. I would rather face Vicksburg a dozen times than to go through this again.”

“Don’t take it too much to heart.” Farragut patted her hand with great gentleness. “It was a severe ordeal, but truth will always prevail. Just think what it would have been had you really been guilty. Your conscience at least was clear.”

“I did not like Mr. Archer,” said Jeanne musingly, loth to leave this friend. “I told Mrs. Butler so. I did not want to give him the papers.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” cried the General.

“Because you had received him here and I thought that of course he was all right. It would have been presumption on my part to have spoken against him when my father sent me to him, and I did not know anything against him really. Besides, I did not dream that any one could doubt my loyalty.”

“You must forgive me,” said the General humbly, seeing how deeply the girl was hurt. “You don’t know what I have to put up with or you would. When you have been here a short time you will realize the situation better than you do now. When you do, will you come to me and be friends?”

“Yes;” and Jeanne smiled a little for the first time.

“Good-bye,” and the Admiral extended his hand as the girl prepared to accompany the Orderly detailed by the General to conduct her to her uncle’s house. “I hope to see you again soon.”

“I hope so too,” answered Jeanne. Then as she clasped his hand she cried half hysterically. “Oh, Admiral, I am afraid to go. I am afraid!”

“No, you’re not, child. You are tired and nervous. Be brave. Meet your uncle as if nothing had happened. I dare say that you will find him kind and good.”

“But he is a rebel,” sobbed Jeanne in such heartrending tones that both men smiled involuntarily.

“Well, some of them are very good men,” said Farragut. “They are mistaken in their views and need teaching a great many things, but otherwise they are a warm-hearted people. I am from the South myself, you know.”

“Are you?” asked the girl surprised, yet she had wondered at his soft Southern voice.

“Yes; a Tennesseean. You seem to think that I am all right.”

“You are,” replied Jeanne so heartily that Farragut laughed outright. “But Uncle Ben didn’t take New Orleans.”

“Perhaps you can get his services for us yet, and he may do something better than to take New Orleans. That may be your work here.”

“I doubt it,” spoke General Butler emphatically. “There is no rebel so unregenerate as a renegade Yankee. There may be some excuse for those born in this section of the country, but for a Yankee who embraces the pernicious doctrine of secession there is none. The Orderly waits, my child.”

Farewells were again exchanged, and Jeanne followed reluctantly after her guide.

CHAPTER XII
AN UNEXPECTED GREETING

At last the cab turned into the courtyard of a massive brick building. It was a true Spanish building with broad doorways and windows, the roof of which was a solid terrace surrounded by a stone balustrade. The establishment had all the privacy of isolation and seclusion and was a charming spot. The gardens were very large and spacious, and fragrant with the blossoms from the magnolia groves. The avenue to the house was shaded with orange trees that later would be redolent with perfume and beautiful beyond description. Fruit trees were everywhere. Pomegranate, peach, banana, fig, pear interspersed with rose trees and jasmine whose odors ravished the senses.

The cab swept in an extensive circle round the courtyard to the carriage step before the broad doorway. A tall gentleman, elegantly appareled, stood leaning in an easy attitude against one of the pillars of the broad piazza smoking a cigar. He advanced to meet the arrivals as the Orderly threw open the door of the cab and handed out the girl.

“General Butler presents his compliments to Mr. and Madame Vance,” he said, with a deep bow, “and begs to introduce to them their niece, Miss Vance of New York.”

“My niece!” exclaimed the gentleman giving Jeanne a look of astonishment. “I have none unless my brother has a daughter. Are you Dick’s child?”

“Yes,” replied Jeanne, her heart beating quickly. “You are Uncle Ben, aren’t you?” with a trace of wistfulness in her voice.

“I am Benjamin Vance at least,” was the answer. “Come in. I don’t know your name, but you are welcome if you are Dick’s daughter.”

“I am Richard Vance’s daughter,” replied Jeanne with some dignity.

“Then you are certainly my niece, though what in the world you are doing here is more than I can see. Dick is well, is he? But come in. You shall tell me all about it later.”

He kissed her lightly on the forehead, and without a glance or word for the Orderly drew her up the brick stairs and through the hall, whose stairway was beautiful enough for a palace with its elaborate, fantastic, hand-wrought iron railing, and on to the door of a salon. A beautiful woman swept graciously forward to meet them. She was very dark with brilliant black eyes and silky hair of raven hue. Her manner was easy, graceful and rather impassioned, and her features showed unmistakably her French descent.

“Clarisse,” said the gentleman, “this is my niece who has honored us with a visit. I think that I have told you of my brother, Richard. She is his daughter and is from New York City.”

“Mais!” exclaimed the lady, with a laugh and speaking with a decidedly French accent. “You surprise me! I knew not that you had a niece. Why did you not tell me? It is one bad husband you are not to tell me of the dear demoiselle. You are welcome, child. She resembles you, mon ami,” taking Jeanne’s face between her hands and giving her a long look. “We shall be great friends, my dear. Is it not so?”

“Yes;” Jeanne’s lips quivered and her eyes filled suddenly with tears at this unexpected greeting. Her mission had ended so differently from the way she had anticipated;–the doubt of her loyalty and the knowledge that her uncle was a rebel had filled her heart with misgivings so that this welcome was almost more than she could bear. But as this gleam of sunshine comforted her, she steeled herself against its influence and drew herself up bravely.

“I must tell you something,” she said, “before you welcome me too warmly. I am for the Union.”

She did not dare to look at them as she spoke. Her thought was that they must know her principles before going further. She was homesick and longing for love and tenderness, but not for one moment would she receive them under false pretenses. A glance flashed from husband to wife and then a clear, silvery laugh rang out as the lady caught her to her.

“You dear little Yankee! you are too ridiculous for anything! Did you think we would turn you out because you were not a rebel? Well, we are rebels, my dear, but as we have to stand that odious, uncouth General Butler of yours I think we won’t mind a little thing like you. Come now, and I will take you to your room and you shall rest. Then you shall tell us why you have come all this way to see us at such a time.”

Jeanne returned her caresses with fervor, and abandoned herself to the delight of being fondled and petted again as only children can do who have been deprived of endearments after being accustomed to them.

“They are nice people,” she whispered as the lady left her in a cool quiet room. “I wonder if it is wrong to like them? But it is father’s brother, and I ought to love them. Oh, I do wish they were not rebels! How can they be traitors when they are so good!”

After she had rested her uncle’s wife came for her.

“You are not weary now, are you?” she asked in her soft, caressing voice. “You looked so fatigued, child. Tell me, what is your name?”

“Jeanne.”

“Jeanne? Oh, you darling! That is French, isn’t it? I did not know that the Americans ever named their children so. Jeanne! It is delightful.”

“And you are Aunt Clarisse?”

“Ma foi, Jeanne! Do not call me anything so prim. Call me ‘Cherie.’ Aunt Clarisse indeed!” She laughed gaily.

“Cherie! what does it mean?” asked the girl wonderingly, gazing at the bright face above her with delight. “It should be something brilliant and sweet to suit you, I think. Something like rich red roses heavy with perfume and sweetness.”

“You little flatterer! And you call yourself a Yankee? No, no; Yankees do not make speeches like that. You are French as your name is.”

“But I like to be a Yankee,” cried Jeanne.

“Be what you like, little one, so long as you are as sweet as you are. But now let us go down to your uncle, after you take one little cup of coffee. So! Now we are ready.”

The two descended to the drawing-room arm in arm, and there Jeanne related all the circumstances that led to her coming to New Orleans, concealing nothing. Her deep love and attachment to her country glowed through the narrative like a golden thread. The lady and gentleman listened in silence until she related General Butler’s doubt of herself, when her uncle sprang to his feet with an exclamation.

“The scoundrel!” he cried. “To subject you to such treatment. And we are helpless. Yes; we are helpless. Day after day some new act of injustice comes to our ears and we must submit. But our time is coming, and I fancy that Butler won’t relish what his high handed proceedings will bring him.”

“He is truly a beast without the instincts of a gentleman,” cried Madame Vance, excitedly. “That is our name for him, Jeanne. ‘Beast’ Butler, and well he deserves it.”

Jeanne moved uneasily.

“It wasn’t pleasant,” she said, “and it was a new thing to me to have my loyalty questioned, but I think he must have to do that way. You are so against him, you know, that if he were not careful you might rise up and drive him out. And the Union must have New Orleans. Father says that the rebellion can never be put down unless the Mississippi River is in our possession.”

“True for you, my little Yankee. And that is just where the Union will fail. They did take New Orleans through the cowardice of its defenders, but they’ll never get Vicksburg. And so long as we can hold that the Confederacy is safe. But you say that you ran past the Vicksburg batteries. Tell that again.”

Jeanne retold that portion of her story to please him.

“I am glad that you are here, child,” remarked Mr. Vance when she had finished. “But I am surprised at Brother Dick’s sending you to face such dangers. He always was an enthusiast in anything that he undertook, and undervalued life if it stood in the way of accomplishing his object.”

“Father did not know that it was so risky,” said Jeanne unwilling to hear aught against her father. “He would not have sent me if he had. Besides I wanted to come, and I am glad that I did come, now that I have met you and Cherie.”

“Yes; I am glad for you to know her too,” said Uncle Ben, his Yankee tones sounding in flat contrast with his wife’s sibilant ones. “I always intended taking her North to see Dick’s folks, but just as we were ready to go this war came on and here we are now at the mercy of that Yankee.”

“But you are a Yankee too, Uncle Ben,” said Jeanne bluntly.

“Ages ago, little one. He has gotten over all that now,” said Madame Vance softly. “After you have been with us awhile you will get over your rank Unionism too.”

Jeanne shook her head decidedly.

“Dear Cherie,” she said, “nothing could ever make me disloyal to my flag. See! I always carry it with me.”

She drew the flag from her bosom and waved it proudly before her. Madame Vance gasped, and her husband’s face darkened perceptibly.

“Little one, you will not carry it while here, will you? To please me, dear, never take it out again.”

“Oh, but I must,” said Jeanne. “I promised my own dear mother that I would look at it every night and I must keep my promise. I wish I could please you, Cherie, but I cannot. But I will do this much. I will not take it out before you any more. I ought to respect your feelings, I know.”

“So much gained,” murmured the lady aside to her husband. To Jeanne she only said quietly:

“Thank you, dear. You are an amiable little thing, and you shall have my favorite darky for your maid while you are here. I will call Snowball and she will help you to dress for dinner.”

“Snowball,” echoed Jeanne.

CHAPTER XIII
UNDER EVERY FLOWER THERE LURKS A SERPENT

“Yes; help her to dress for dinner,” replied Madame Vance speaking for Jeanne. “We dine at eight, my dear.”

Jeanne followed the black to the room which had been given her, and Snowball proceeded to brush her hair.

“Snowball,” said the girl suddenly, “was your mother named Tennessee? And did they call her Tenny for short?”

“Bress yer soul, honey, yes,” cried Snowball letting the brush fall in her astonishment. “How kum yer ter know dat?”

“She was on the boat with me when I came from Memphis,” replied Jeanne. “She told me all about losing you and how much she thought of you, but she thought that Colonel Peyton bought you.”

“Yes’m, he did. But de Kuhnel went to de wah an’ he say he hab too many darkies, so he sell off all but de ones he hab de longes’, an’ Massa Vance bought me. What my ole mammy say?”

“She loves you very much, and she misses you greatly, Snowball. I wish I could buy you and set you free. Then you could go North to live with her.”

“Wish yer could. I’d laik dat. An’ I’d laik de bes’ in de wohld ter see my ole mammy ergain. How’d she look, missy?”

Jeanne told the girl all that she could recall about Tenny. How she looked and what she had said. Snowball’s eyes glistened as she talked.

“Yer got a good heart, little missy,” she said as Jeanne paused for breath. “You is de bestest lill’ lady dat I eber seed. Snowball’ll lub ter wait on yer.”

And Jeanne soon found that it was really a labor of love to the girl, and they grew to be fast friends despite the difference in color and condition. In fact she soon found that she felt more at home with the colored girl than she did with her aunt in spite of the caresses which the latter lavished upon her.

The days passed into weeks, and the weeks into months until two had rolled by and Jeanne was still in New Orleans. She had grown pale and thin and worn. She had no illness but suffered the bad effects of the wasting climate. In all the time she had been there no word had come to her from her parents, and a great longing for home possessed her.

“Why does not my father write for me?” she murmured one morning as she sat listlessly before the window. “What can have happened? Something is wrong I know, or he would have sent for me.”

“Why so triste, my love?” asked her aunt entering the room.

“Cherie,” and Jeanne returned the caress that Madame bestowed upon her. “I am wishing for my mother and home. I wonder why I have not heard from my father.”

“It is strange,” admitted the lady. “And yet, child, when one considers the state of the country and how the Yankees seize mails and telegrams, and exercise such a rigorous espionage over them one cannot wonder after all. I have no doubt that he has written, but that his letters are being detained for some reason by ‘Beast’ Butler.”

Jeanne made no reply. She had ceased for some time saying anything when her aunt launched forth in a tirade against the Yankees. She was as staunch a patriot as ever, but, without words, it had been borne in upon her mind that her sentiments were unwelcome to her uncle and aunt, and that it would be better for her not to give utterance to them.

“Where is Snowball?” asked Madame Vance presently. “I wish to take you for a drive, and you are not dressed. That darky gets more shiftless every day. Where is she?”

“Hyar I is, missus.” Snowball started up from behind a huge brocaded chair so quickly that she overturned a low table upon which stood a ewer that had contained orangeade. A crash followed, and the culprit stood looking at the fragments of the pitcher with consternation written over her face.

“Come here,” and Madame’s tone was so stern that Jeanne looked at her startled. “Forty lashes you shall have for this.”

“Please’m, missus, lemme off dis time. Clar ter goodness I didn’t go ter do it.”

“Please, please,” said Jeanne tearfully. She had heard the sound of whippings once or twice, but her aunt had always taken her away from the sound immediately, and her soul sickened at the thought of them. “I could not bear to have Snowball whipped, Cherie.”

“She must be punished,” said the lady harshly. “Such carelessness cannot be tolerated for a moment.”

“But isn’t there some other way?” cried Jeanne. “Do, do, dear Cherie, use some other way of punishment.”

“Jeanne, I beg you to say no more. Am I not capable of administering the affairs of my own household? I want no Yankee notions down here. I understand what she needs.”

Jeanne did not dare to reply. She had never before seen her aunt angry although she knew that the blacks were very much afraid of her. Snowball was taken down into the yard, and soon Jeanne heard the most fearful screams as if a human being was suffering the utmost that a mortal could endure of agony.

She could not bear the cries. She ran down the stairs and out into the yard where she beheld the girl stretched upon the ground on her face, her feet tied to a stake, her hands held by a black man, her back uncovered from her head to her heels. Her aunt was standing by directing a burly negro in his task of applying the lash.

The girl’s back was covered with blood. Every stroke of the instrument of torture tore up the flesh in long dark ridges. With a cry of horror Jeanne caught the man’s arm as it was about to descend for another stroke.

“Stop,” she cried. “For the love of mercy, stop!”

“Go into the house, girl,” commanded Madame Vance in terrible tones. “Who are you that you should interfere with my bidding? Have I not the right to do with my own slave as I wish? I want none of your abolitionism here.”

“But she has been whipped enough,” cried Jeanne. “Surely it is enough. I cannot bear it.”

She burst into tears. For a moment Madame’s face was convulsed with fury, and then a wonderful change came over it. She was once again the smiling, affectionate lady that had greeted the girl on her arrival.

“There!” she said going to Jeanne and putting her arms about her. “You shall have your way. You see that ‘Cherie’ can refuse you nothing. Put up your strap, Jeff. I will let the girl off this time because Miss Jeanne wishes it. But see that you are more careful next time, Snowball. You might not get off so easily.”

“Yes, missus,” responded the sobbing creature as she was helped upon her feet.

“Now come, Jeanne, and we will go for our drive. You have no idea how troublesome these blacks are, my dear. One has to keep an iron hand upon them to hold them in subjection. But of course you are not used to them.”

“No,” said Jeanne shrinking a little from her caresses. “We don’t have slavery at the North. I never felt so thankful of it before. Poor things! Poor things!”

Madame Vance’s brow darkened, but she smoothed the girl’s hair softly.

“And aren’t you going to forgive your poor ‘Cherie’? Are you going to turn against her because of a little whipping? You are unjust, Jeanne. We who have the blacks to deal with know more of this matter than you do. Besides did I not give it up when you asked me?”

“Forgive me,” answered Jeanne trying to feel the same toward the beautiful woman as she had before, but too full of the recent horror to do so. “I am not used to such things, Cherie, and it will take some time for me to get over them.”

“We will say no more about it, you quaint one, but go for our drive.”

And soon they were out in the bright sunshine, the lady pointing out places of interest as she had often done before, but it seemed to the girl that she was trying to impress upon her mind the location of some of the streets particularly.

“Now,” said Madame after they had returned to the villa and were partaking of refreshments, “now you shall show me again the lunch basket with its curious hiding-place. How clever your father must be, child! I long to know him.”

“I wish we could go to him,” sighed Jeanne as she obediently brought the basket and showed once more the place where the quinine had been concealed.

“Perhaps we may soon, who knows?” said the lady gaily, examining the basket closely notwithstanding her liveliness. “I would tell you a secret–but no; not now.”

“What, Cherie?” cried the girl with eagerness. “Is it about my father?”

“Now, now, curious one!” madame shook her finger playfully at her. “Well then, I will tell. I can refuse you nothing, petite. You wind yourself about my heart so. Listen, and you shall hear the grand news. Your uncle and I wonder too why your father does not write. We know that you have a great desire for your home, and so we are going to take you there.”

“Home! Oh, Cherie!” Jeanne sprang to the lady and embraced her rapturously, “Home! I am so glad! so glad!”

“Is it not grand, little one? And we go together to see your clever father and your beautiful mother. But your uncle has much to do first. I will tell you more. He has deeded you all his property. His houses, his carriages, his slaves, his horses, his money, in fact everything which he possesses. Is he not kind?”

“To me?” and Jeanne looked at her in bewilderment. “But why, Cherie?”

“Because he thinks so much of you, and then too you are for the Union, and the ‘Beast’ will not take them from you as he would from us.”

“But why should General Butler wish to take your property from you?” asked the girl, who knew nothing of the Confiscation Act. In fact knowledge of any kind had been carefully kept from her except such as reflected upon the North.

“I do not know, child. Who does?” shrugging her shoulders. “The vagaries of the ‘Beast’ are not to be kept up with. But it does not matter. You will have them and we will be pleased. We have no children, you know.”

“I know,” said Jeanne kissing her. She could not understand the matter. Her uncle had never shown any particular fondness for her, and in fact seemed to shun her. “You are very kind to me, Cherie.”

“So kind that you would do one little thing for ‘Cherie’?” asked the lady, flashing a quick glance at her.

“Certainly, I would,” replied the girl unwarily.

“Then listen, petite, and you shall hear how you can do a great service for your uncle and me. Draw closer, my pet. None must hear what I would tell you.”

Jeanne came close to her side and waited to hear what her aunt had to say.