The thought of the war caused my dreams to change. I had my first vision of America, perhaps the world, as it would be after the terrible conflict in which my country had just entered. After it—for surely good must come of so great a disaster—there would be no idle, untrained women to menace human progress. In America we would have neither human cooties nor human drudges; all such inhuman creatures wiped out by the war, we would become a nation of workers, struggling to carry out the ideals of the founders of our country. During breakfast I notified the housekeeper that I must leave at the end of the week. She remonstrated vigorously. When her offer to increase my wages failed to move me she confided to me her plan for my promotion. She, it appeared, had been the nursery-governess of Mrs. Sutton, had remained in the family, and when her former pupil married had taken charge of her new home as housekeeper. Now, the old woman continued, having saved enough to keep her comfortable, she wished to spend her last days among her own people in England. I was to take her position as housekeeper. Even that did not cause me to change my mind. I told her that I must go and not later than the end of that week. Along toward the middle of the morning Mrs. Sutton’s French maid came to me. Madame wished to see me in her bedroom at once. On entering Mrs. Sutton’s room, a fable told me by Booger when I was a very small child flashed into my mind. Booger was a young negro who served my father’s family in the double capacity of stable-boy and my nurse. Born during that period when the fortunes of the people of the Southern States were at lowest ebb, resulting from our Civil War, I did not share the advantage of being nursed by the “Mammy” adored by my older sisters and brothers. So far as I know, my father’s stable-boy was my only nurse. And so far as I have been able to learn, nobody knows why I bestowed on him the name of Booger. To the rest of the world he was Peter. “The Lord God done made Miss Rose white,” according to Booger. “But yerly one mornin’ whilst Marse Adam was a-walkin’ in the Gyarden of Eden he done kotch Miss Rose when she was a-turnin’ back her clothes an’ washin’ of her face. Miss Rose was so ’shamed that she turned red. She’s been red ever sence.” Mrs. Sutton, lying among her pillows, with the morning’s mail scattered over the silken coverlet of her bed, reminded me of a half-opened white rose caught at her toilet and blushing a shell-pink. She was more beautiful than any flower in her garden. Her wide blue eyes were the color of the sky into which I had gazed at sunrise, and as fathomless. Who can fathom the soul of a flippant woman? When I refused her offer to raise my wages she told me of the housekeeper’s plan for my promotion. When that failed she acted like a spoiled child. She wished to know my reason for leaving, she insisted on knowing, she must know.