reaction followed excitement. josephine had never been so tired, no, not even during her long railway journey. she had laughed and shouted till her throat ached; her eyes were still dazzled by the gleam of sunlight upon snow; and her clothing was wet through. she stepped from the “firefly” and climbed the cold marble stoop, holding on to peter’s hand as if without its aid she could not have mounted it at all. she allowed him to take off her hat and cloak, without protesting that she liked to do things for herself, and sat down by the register with a shiver of content.
“tired, little missy?”
“terrible tired, peter, thank you.”
“massa joe’s takin’ his luncheon, miss josephine.”
[112]“is he?” she asked indifferently.
“reckon you better come get yours. massa joe don’t wait for nobody, he don’t. less’n ever when he’s got the gout on. better hurry, maybe, honey,” urged the butler.
josephine rose, observed that she must go wash her hands and fix her hair before she could go to table, and wearily ascended the stairs to her own grand room. once there the bed looked so inviting, despite its great size, that she climbed upon it and dropped her hot face on the cool pillow. she forgot to remove her wet shoes, nor thought how her dampened clothing might stain the delicate lace spread. she meant to stay there for a moment only, “just till my eyes get right,” but she fell asleep almost instantly.
she did not notice that the window was open, nor that the heat had been turned off, the better to warm the library below. she noticed nothing, in fact, till some time later when old peter shook her sharply, exclaiming still more indignantly:
“for land, honey, don’t you know no[113] better’n go sleepin’ with your window open right here in march? ’tisn’t your fault, missy, if you don’t done ketch the pneumony. massa joe says for you to come downstairs. little gells what live to his house must learn not to keep table waitin’, less’n they can’t stay. better get up, miss josephine.”
she obeyed him, but shivered afresh as she did so. the next moment she was so warm she ran to the window and thrust her head out of it. peter drew her back and closed the sash with a bang. then he led her to the washstand and made a futile attempt to brush her tangled curls.
“never mind, good peter. i can do it. i’m sorry i went to sleep. has uncle joe wanted me?” she interrupted.
“reckon he has, honey. he done suffer terrible. he like to hear you sing them songs again, likely.”
“well, i will, if i’m not too tired,” she answered.
the butler looked at her anxiously. was she going to be sick? if she were, whatever[114] could he do with her? a sick man—that was one thing; but a sick little girl, that was quite another matter. she would have to go, he feared, and to lose her now would seem very hard.
after all, she did not appear ill. she laughed and apologized so sweetly to her would-be-angry host that he forgot his indignation and forgave her on the spot. only warned her gravely that he was a man who meant exactly what he said, and intended anybody belonging to him should do the same. one hour was never two; and, in case they never came across that missing uncle of hers, he supposed she would have to stay where she was until such time as her own parents could claim her; ending his lecture with the question:
“would she remember?”
she’d promise to try and remember; and would he like to hear all about what a lovely, lovely time she had had? did he know what snow felt like? had he ever ridden and ridden till he couldn’t see, and been dumped into high banks and buried underneath the soft, cold[115] stuff, till he was nearly smothered, and got his stockings all wet, and shouted till he couldn’t shout another shout? had he? she cried.
“i suppose i have. many, many years ago. but wet stockings? have you got such on your little feet?” he anxiously asked.
then, though he shrank from contact with anything damp or cold, fearing fresh pangs to himself, he drew off her shoe and felt the moist but now hot, little foot within.
“child, you’re crazy. never go round like that. run up to your bathroom and take a hot bath. then put on everything clean and dry. don’t you know better than to behave as you have done? didn’t your mother have sense”—
there he paused, arrested by the piteous look which came over his guest’s bonny face.
“never mind. don’t cry. i couldn’t stand that. it’s bad enough to have the gout, and a little girl in the house who doesn’t—won’t—hasn’t changed her stocking—oh! ouch! clear out, can’t you? my foot, my foot!” he shouted.
[116]josephine might have echoed, “my throat! my throat!” but she disdained any such outcry. her lip curled in a fine scorn, and at sight of the grimace he made she laughed outright. laughed foolishly, convulsively, began to cry, and with a little wail of “mamma! mamma!” ran out of the room.
old peter followed, saw that her room was made warm, prepared her bath, helped her to lay out clean, dry clothing, and left her, with the consoling remark:
“don’t you never mind massa joe when he’s gouty. men-folks ain’t done got the gumption little gells has to keep their mouth shut and not groan. groanin’ lets a powerful lot of bad temper outen gouty people, missy, and don’t you mind, honey. just you call on me for what you’se needin’ and everything will all come right. now fix yourself up pretty and come laughin’ down the stairs, like you done last night, and see what’ll happen.”
josephine was comforted. the hot bath did make her feel all right, and the pretty frock she had selected reminded her quite happily of[117] mamma and the days when she had sat sewing upon it. the very tucks in its skirt seemed to bring that dear presence nearer, and she reflected that they were absent from each other only till such time as poor papa should get quite well. she appeared below, saying:
“now i’m good, uncle joe. forgive me for being bad. i’ll sing again if you want me.”
“of course i want you. maybe i was a bit stern, too, little lady. i hope this wretched pain will leave me by to-morrow, then i’ll be able to think of something else besides that hateful foot.”
“poor foot!” she exclaimed.
“now sing, if you will.”
josephine tried, but it was altogether another sort of voice which essayed “old lang syne” from that which had warbled it so sweetly earlier in the day; so that she was promptly bidden to give over the attempt, mr. smith adding:
“you’re as hoarse as a raven. a few more such rough plays with a parcel of boys and[118] your voice would be ruined. then your mother would never forgive me. i know enough about music to realize what your singing is to her. here. take a book and read. by-and-by it will be dinner time. maybe the hot soup will soothe your throat.”
he directed her to a bookcase and a vellum-bound copy of “the pilgrim’s progress;” observing with fresh pleasure that it was her habit, not an accident of the previous evening, that she handled all books daintily and with respect for them. then he forgot her in his own review, and his foot grew easier as the afternoon wore on.
josephine sat patiently poring over the familiar story, which she could easily read in her own copy at home, but that seemed different in this grand volume; and after a time the words began to mix themselves up in a curious sort of jumble. she closed her eyes the better to clear her vision, didn’t think to open them again, and her head sank down upon the pictured page.
“huh!” said mr. smith, at last laying aside[119] his own magazine, and regarding the sleeper across the table with some amusement. “old bunyan’s a trifle heavy for that pretty head. i must hunt up some lighter stuff. grimm or andersen, if i’ve such books in the library. if not, i’ll send out after them. how lovely and innocent she looks, and how red her cheeks are. her whole face is red, even, and— peter!”
“yes, massa joe. yes, suh,” answered the butler.
“doesn’t that child seem a bit feverish? do you know anything about children, peter?” asked “uncle joe.”
“mighty little, i’se afraid, suh.”
“well, sleep can’t hurt anybody. carry her upstairs and lay her on her bed. cover her warm, and probably she’ll be all right afterward. she mustn’t get sick. she must not dare to get sick on my hands, peter!”
“no, massa joe. no, suh. she dastn’t,” said the negro, quickly.
peter lifted the little girl as tenderly as a woman, and carried her off to rest. she did[120] not rouse at all, but her head dropped heavily on the pillow as if her neck were too slender to support it, and her breath came with a strange whistling sound.
the old negro laid his hand upon her temples and found them hot. though he knew little about children, he did know that cold water was good in such a case, so dipped a towel and folded it across her head. the application seemed to soothe her, for her features became more natural, and, after a time, as she appeared to be resting well enough, he stole cautiously from the room and went about his business. though his interest was now wholly with josephine, he dared not neglect his duties below stairs, and knew that, as usual when he was ill, mr. smith would expect the best of dinners that evening. it had been so stormy early in the day that he had not attended to his marketing, and must now make haste to repair the delay. apollo was apt to lay the blame on the butler, if things failed to turn out as desired, and there was need for haste if the roast beef were to be secured of the cut preferred.
[121]“i’ll just fetch a posy for the little lady, i will. if market’s over they’s plenty them flower-stores, and maybe it’ll make her forget all her lonesomeness. poor little missy! what the lord done sent to bless this great, empty house. nothing mustn’t happen to hurt her, nothing mustn’t. no, suh,” reflected the good old man.
when peter returned from his marketing josephine was still asleep. he did not disturb her, though he listened anxiously to her hoarse breathing and carefully replaced the damp towel which her restlessness had tossed aside. he also laid the bunch of carnations on the coverlet beside her and cautiously retreated to the hall, where he kept as close a watch upon her as he could find time to give.
“dinner is served, massa joe,” he announced, when its hour arrived.
“is miss josephine ready?” asked the host.
“she done sleepin’ mighty comf’table, suh,” protested peter.
“seems to me i’ve read somewhere that[122] children should sleep half the time. is that so, peter?”
“certainly, suh, i reckon likely ’tis,” replied the other, willing to agree.
“then don’t wake her. you—you may have a little dinner put back for her,” said “uncle joe,” with some hesitation.
the butler stared at this unheard-of condescension, but answered after his common formula. yet the plate of food he so carefully prepared and set in the hot-water dish to keep warm for her was destined never to be eaten.
