Jane fairly jumped.
“Gracious, miss!” she screamed, “but you give me a start, takin’ me up that quick!” and she pressed her hand against her ample bosom and caught her breath convulsively.
“But what was it you said I was spoiling?” I persisted, for I could scarcely believe that I had heard aright.
“Why, this quilt, to be sure,” she answered. “You was cryin’ on it, and here’s a mark from one o’ your—”
“Yes, yes!” I cried. “But what kind of a quilt did you say it was, Jane?”
Jane pressed her cool hand anxiously to my forehead.
“You’ve got a fever, child,” she said soothingly. “I might ’a’ knowed you would have arter all that worry. I was wrong t’ get ye up. You’d better lay down ag’in. Never mind the quilt—it’s an old thing, anyway.”
“Jane,” I exclaimed, with the calmness of desperation, “will you kindly tell me again what kind of a quilt you said this was?”
“It’s a rose o’ Sharing quilt, miss,” answered Jane. “Don’t y’ see these little flowers in every other square an’ this here big one in the middle? Missus allers kept it on her bed, an’ would never let any of us touch it; though I could never guess why she thought so much of it, fer it ain’t purty, to my mind.”
While she was speaking, I had rushed to the windows and thrown back the shutters; and as the bright morning sun streamed into the room, I bent over and looked at the quilt with eyes so throbbing with excitement that I could scarcely see it. Sure enough, on each alternate patch was a little rude conventional representation of the althea blossom, and on the centre patch was a much larger one of the tall, upright bush, worked with considerable care. Around the border of the quilt ran a design of leaves.