“I pray heaven,” Aunt Lorena whispered to me when they had passed, “that good old Martha will outlive mother, for I have no idea how we should manage without her.” We stole softly into the house and up a little flight of stairs, and then down the corridor to grandmother’s door. We could hear Martha still crooning to her as if she were a frightened child, and then, little by little, grandmother ceased weeping. “Come,” whispered Aunt Lorena, and we stole away to my room. She saw me back into my bed, and kissed me good night—not warmly, the way Mother McBirney used, but gently and kindly. I like her better for not pretending to what she does not feel. She will grow fonder of me if I deserve it. “We’ll say nothing about this to your Uncle David,” she cautioned me. “It makes him wretched for days when he learns that his mother has been ‘wandering.’” “She’ll not be ill as a result of this?” “Probably not—only a little distrait and quiet.” I was left alone again in my fragrant room, and still I could not sleep for thinking of how my life had changed, and how curious were these people I had come among. I saw the stars moving along in their courses, and light beginning to break in the east. And then, just to show how inconsistent I could be, I fell asleep. I slept till noon. Think of it—me, the Early Riser! Perhaps I wouldn’t have awakened then if Semmy hadn’t come in with chocolate and rolls and an omelet. “Ole Miss is wanting you, Miss,” she said. So I ate quickly and dressed in my dark blue frock with the crocheted lace collar and cuffs and was taken to her. She was in her bedroom still, or rather in her sitting room, for her bedroom is a stately alcove raised two or three feet above her sitting room. To-day she was all in purple, with studs of amethysts in her white lace chemisette and at the fastenings of her long lace sleeves. It was very difficult to imagine that this was the same little broken creature I had heard weeping aloud the night before, and being comforted like a baby. “My dear,” she said when I went in, “I hear that you did not rest well last night.” “Not very well, thank you, madam grandmother,” I said dropping her a curtsy as Aunt Lorena had told me to do. “Being in a new place no doubt disturbed you,” said my grandmother. “You did well to refresh yourself with sleep this morning. At your age, my dear, I seldom arose before noon, but that was because of the many gayeties in which I participated—a ball or a rout almost every night, and gentlemen riding out in the afternoon to call. The times are not so brilliant now, I regret to say. However, a few of the old families remain to keep alive the elegant traditions of my time, and I have called you here, Azalea, to say that I wish you to be presented to my friends.” I curtsied again. Her queer quaint way of talking made me feel that nothing save a curtsy would suit the occasion. “Thank you, madam grandmother; I shall be honored.”