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 , 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 the stairs to her own grand room. Once there the bed looked so , 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 attempt to brush her 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 the soft, cold[115] stuff, till he was nearly , 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 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 any such outcry. Her lip curled in a fine scorn, and at sight of the he made she laughed . Laughed foolishly, convulsively, began to cry, and with a little 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 little gells has to keep their mouth shut and not . 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.”
 
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