"Yes'm," the yellow girl modestly answers.
"Then do go and bring me six handkerchiefs from my boudoir, in the fifth drawer of my black papier mache bureau. Let me see your gloves, dear.
"Ah, Vanilla, you are to be depended upon; your gloves are clean—now run along, dear, for I'm suffering for a fresh, new, and untouched handkerchief.
"Ah, that's well. Now, Vanilla, go to Mrs. Brown's, my laundress—say that I wish her to come here, immediately."
"Yes'm," says the bright quadroon, and away she spins for the domicil of democratic Mrs. Brown, the laundress.
"Now what's up, I'd like to know?" quoth the old woman.
"Dunno, missus wants to see you—guess you better come," says Vanilla.
"Deuce take sich fussy people," says Mrs. Brown; "I wouldn't railly put up with all her dern'd nonsense, ef she wa'n't so poorly, so weak in her mind and body, and so good about paying for her work. No, I declare I wouldn't," said the strong-minded woman.
"Bring the creature up," said Mrs. Pompaliner, as one of her fresh attendants announced the washerwoman.
"Ah, you are here?"