It was a possible escape from that other most awful "aunt." He laid the _Moral Tales_ down as if they were made of glass, and departed with alacrity. Twice he had to knock upon the blue room door before a voice said: "Who's there?" "It's me, Aunt Valeria." "Oh, run away, dear." "But, please, I'm sent." A little pause and the door was opened. A spacious bedchamber, where everything--walls, curtains, carpet, and bedfurnishing--was a soft faded blue, almost gray in this light. The floor was strewn with papers, books and papers lay on the chairs, on the sofa, even on the preternaturally high and massive bedstead, that looked quite inaccessible to all save the athletic without the aid of a ladder. "Did my mother send you?" asked Aunt Valeria. "Yes, and--oh, are you awful busy?" His voice faltered a little. "Why?" she said, taking the child by the hand and leading him in. The action of kindliness wrought upon the perturbed little spirit. His eyes filled with tears. "You see," he said, "I thought she was a servant." "Who was a servant?" "My other aunt." "Miss Tallmadge?" "No, the other one here. But I like you best. Won't you take me up to bed? Of course I do everything for myself; it won't be a great trouble; it's only just so my other aunt needn't come even as far as the door." "What other?" "Aunt J--J--Jerusha," he said, with an excited sob. Valeria began to laugh, a thing she seldom did. "My poor little boy!" she said, "Jerusha's the cook, and a very good friend to all of us. People in the South call a good old servant like that 'aunt' when they like her as much as we do Jerusha. She used to be a slave; we brought her from Maryland." "And she's not my really truly aunt at all?" "Of course not, you foolish little boy! Didn't you see she was a negress?" "Oh yes, I saw _that_." He shuddered. "And didn't you see she waited on us at the table?" "Yes, but so does Aunt Hannah in Boston on Sundays." "_Does_ she?" Then seeing the child's anxiety was not quite dissipated: "Didn't you notice when she'd finished waiting at supper Jerusha went back to the kitchen? Now, if she'd been a real aunt--" "Well, you see, I did think of that, but I thought perhaps aunts didn't come and sit in the parlor here, and I remembered how she--she"--he looked down and grew scarlet--"tried to kiss me at the station." "Oh yes, she might do that. You see, she was very fond of your father." "But my father didn't use to kiss her." "Oh, I dare say--" "No, Aunt Valeria; I should think he _never_ did." "Perhaps not, then," she said, humoring him. "Do you think," he began, in a half-whisper--"do you think when she takes me up to bed she'll--she'll--" "I don't know, but I'll take you myself, if you'd like that better." "Oh, I would, Aunt Valeria." "Very well, then. Come, we'll go down-stairs and say good-night." He slipped his hand in hers. "Of course, I didn't _really_ think she was my aunt," he said, with the easy mendacity of childhood.