The Governor looked gravely after her. “I'm afraid the child is really getting spoiled, Julia,” he mildly suggested.
“She's getting a—a vixenish,” declared Mr. Bill, mopping his expansive white waistcoat.
“You des better lemme go atter a twig er willow, Marse Peyton,” muttered Uncle Shadrach in the Governor's ear.
“Hold your tongue, Shadrach,” retorted the Governor, which was the harshest command he was ever known to give his servants.
Virginia ate her waffle and said nothing. When she went upstairs a little later, she carried a pitcher of buttermilk for Betty's face.
“It isn't usual for a young lady to have freckles, Aunt Lydia says,” she remarked, “and you must rub this right on and not wash it off till morning—and, after you've rubbed it well in, you must get down on your knees and ask God to mend your temper.”
Betty was lying in her little trundle bed, while Petunia, her small black maid, pulled off her stockings, but she got up obediently and laved her face in buttermilk. “I don't reckon there's any use about the other,” she said. “I believe the Lord's jest leavin' me in sin as a warnin' to you and Petunia,” and she got into her trundle bed and waited for the lights to go out, and for the watchful Virginia to fall asleep.
She was still waiting when the door softly opened and her mother came in, a lighted candle in her hand, the pale flame shining through her profile as through delicate porcelain, and illumining her worn and fragile figure. She moved with a slow step, as if her white limbs were a burden, and her head, with its smoothly parted bright brown hair, bent like a lily that has begun to fade.