Dawn came. A chirping cedar bird, busy in the near-by shrubbery, wakened her with a care-free note. She started up and gazed out with that sudden wonder and terror which at times seize upon us when we awake in strange environment. Youth and vitality resumed sway. She was alive, then. The night had passed, then. She was as she had been, herself, her own, still. The surge of young blood came back in her veins. The morning was there, the hills were there, the world was there. Hope began once more with the throb of her perfect pulse. She stretched a round white arm and looked down it to her hand. She held up her fingers against the light, and the blood in them, the soul in them, showed pink and clean between. Slowly she pushed down the patchwork silk. There lay her splendid limbs and body. Yes, it was she, it was herself, her own. Yes, she would live, she would succeed, she would win! All of which, of course, meant to her but one thing--escape. A knock came at the door, really for the third time, although for the first time heard. Old Sally entered, bearing her tray, with coffee. "Now you lay right still whah you is, Ma'am," she began. "You-all wants a li'l bit o' coffee. Then I'll bring you up some real breakfus'--how you like yuah aigs? Ma'am, you suttinly is lookin' fine dis mawnin'. I'll fetch you yuah tub o' watah right soon now." In spite of herself Josephine found herself unable to resist interest in these proceedings. After all, her prison was not to be without its comforts. She hoped the eggs would be more than two. The old serving woman slowly moved about here and there in the apartment, intent upon duties of her own. While thus engaged, Josephine, standing femininely engaged before her glass, chanced to catch sight of her in the mirror. She had swiftly slipped over and opened the door of a wardrobe. Over her arm now was some feminine garment. "What have you there?" demanded Josephine, turning as swiftly. "Jus' some things I'se gwine take away to make room for you, tha'ss all, Ma'am." Josephine approached and took up in her own hands these evidences of an earlier occupancy of the room. They were garments of a day gone by. The silks were faded, dingy, worn in the creases from sheer disuse. Apparently they had hung untouched for some time. [Illustration: They were garments of a day gone by.] "Whose were these, Sally?" demanded Josephine. "I dunno, Ma'am. I'se been mos'ly in the kitchen, Ma'am." Josephine regarded her closely. No sign of emotion showed on that brown mask. The gray brows above the small eyes did not flicker. "I suppose these may have belonged to Mr. Dunwody's mother," said Josephine carelessly. "Yassam!" "His sister?" "Yassam!" "Or his wife, perhaps?" "Yassam, ef they really wuz one." "Was there ever?" demanded Josephine sharply. "Might a-been none, er might a-been a dozen, fur's I know. Us folks don' study much 'bout whut white folks does."