“Then we are really not to know?” they cried desperately.
“No, you are to sleep for a long time, and do as I say. I have given my promise and I shall say no more.”
And off sped Billie’s tantalizing relation to her own room, the silk draperies of her negligee sweeping after her in lavender billows.
“I’ll only tell you this much,” she added, when she reached the door. “It’s the very nicest surprise you could possibly imagine, and there is not one person here who will be disappointed. Now, off to your beds, every one of you.”
She closed the door softly, leaving the four Motor Maids in a state of excited perplexity which no amount of discussion and conjecture could satisfy.
At length, feeling a great need for sleep, they obediently retired to their rooms and their beds.
The sun had broken through the mist and was shining brightly when Billie and Nancy awoke. There were spring noises in the street, the sound of distant music and the call of a flower vendor who was selling pots of rose geraniums and pansies. Billie opened her window and looked down into the garden below. How sweet the air was and how fresh and lovely the whole world! Already yesterday’s experience had faded into a strange, unreal dream.
“Listen,” whispered Nancy, “there is music in the room below.”
Through the open window there floated to them the sound of piano playing; first a few introductory chords on the piano and then, to a running, delicious accompaniment, a lovely soprano voice began singing. They climbed back into the great four-post bed and curled up under the covers, and presently the words of the song were inextricably mixed with their dreams. This was the song that floated up to them:
“Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown.
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.
“There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion flower at the gate.
She is coming, my love, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate.
The red rose cries, ‘She is near, she is near’;
The white rose weeps, ‘She is late’;
The larkspur listens, ‘I hear, I hear’;
And the lily whispers, ‘I wait’.”