“It’s a habit dey gibs deirselves—nuffin’ ’tall but a habit dey gibs deirselves!”
“Luce, wake up! I want you to do me a favor.”
“Yes, mist’ess! It’s a hab——” But a wide gape cut off her proverb.
“Luce! I want you to be so kind as to lend Mrs. Anglesea one of your best, new nightdresses,” said the lady.
“Yes, mist’ess, nightgowns. It a hab——You!” with another yawn.
It was full ten minutes before the lady could bring the half-sleeping woman to a consciousness of what was wanted.
Then, indeed, Luce was all attention and alertness, proud to accommodate the visitor. She went to her chest and opened it, filling the room with the fragrance of sweet herbs, and she selected her finest gown, “the one trimmed with torture lace,” as she called it, meaning torchon, and she offered to take it herself down to the stranger. But Mrs. Force would not permit her to do that, and, with the gown over her arm, she went downstairs and into the room of her guest.
“Now, then, this here is something like a gownd,” said Mrs. Anglesea, admiringly. “And, oh, sakes! don’t it smell sweet! Hoome! Ah-h-h!” she exclaimed, pressing the garment up to her face and strongly inhaling its fragrance.
“Good-night,” said the hostess, turning away.
“Good-night! Hoome—ah-h-h! how sweet it is!”