CHAPTER VIII.
AFTER THE FROLIC.
Reaction followed excitement. Josephine had never been so tired, no, not even during her long railway journey. She had laughed and shouted till her throat ached; her eyes were still dazzled by the gleam of sunlight upon snow; and her clothing was wet through. She stepped from the “Firefly” and climbed the cold marble stoop, holding on to Peter’s hand as if without its aid she could not have mounted it at all. She allowed him to take off her hat and cloak, without protesting that she liked to do things for herself, and sat down by the register with a shiver of content.
“Tired, little missy?”
“Terrible tired, Peter, thank you.”
“Massa Joe’s takin’ his luncheon, Miss Josephine.”
“Is he?” she asked indifferently.
“Reckon you better come get yours. Massa Joe don’t wait for nobody, he don’t. Less’n ever when he’s got the gout on. Better hurry, maybe, honey,” urged the butler.
Josephine rose, observed that she must go wash her hands and fix her hair before she could go to table, and wearily ascended the stairs to her own grand room. Once there the bed looked so inviting, despite its great size, that she climbed upon it and dropped her hot face on the cool pillow. She forgot to remove her wet shoes, nor thought how her dampened clothing might stain the delicate lace spread. She meant to stay there for a moment only, “Just till my eyes get right,” but she fell asleep almost instantly.
She did not notice that the window was open, nor that the heat had been turned off, the better to warm the library below. She noticed nothing, in fact, till some time later when old Peter shook her sharply, exclaiming still more indignantly:
“For land, honey, don’t you know no better’n go sleepin’ with your window open right here in March? ’Tisn’t your fault, missy, if you don’t done ketch the pneumony. Massa Joe says for you to come downstairs. Little gells what live to his house must learn not to keep table waitin’, less’n they can’t stay. Better get up, Miss Josephine.”