“Then don’t wake her. You—you may have a little dinner put back for her,” said “Uncle Joe,” with some hesitation.
The butler stared at this unheard-of condescension, but answered after his common formula. Yet the plate of food he so carefully prepared and set in the hot-water dish to keep warm for her was destined never to be eaten.
CHAPTER IX.
NEIGHBORLY AMENITIES.
Mrs. Merriman’s bell rang violently once, twice, and the lady laid aside her book, exclaiming:
“Who can that be, so late as this? Half-past nine, and almost bedtime. Run, Michael. Though I thought you’d gone upstairs before now. It takes the maid so long to answer. There it is again. Hurry. Dear, dear! I hope it isn’t a telegram.”
“I’m going, Mary,” called the lad to the maid, as he rushed to the door.
Peter stood outside, bareheaded and looking almost white in his terror.
“For mercy’s sake, Massa Michael, is there a woman in this house?”
“Of course. Lots of them. Grandmother, Mary, waitress, Samanda—Why?”
“Our little Miss Josephine. I reckon she’ll die.”