"Yer pa am a-waitin' fer yer, Miss Bee," came the voice of Aunt Fanny. "He say de brek'fus am gittin' cole."
"Aunt Fanny, come here!" Beatrice opened the door and pulled the old woman inside. "Look at my face! This comes from using that jimpson weed poultice. Now what am I going to do?"
The negress gave a gasp at sight of the girl's face, and threw up her hands in dismay.
"Lawsie, chile! How kum yer ter do sech a fool thing? A niggah dunno nuffin' nohow. 'Sides, yer can't do hit in one night. Co'se not. Takes two; mebbe three. I dunno."
"Then why did you tell me about it if you didn't know?" demanded Bee indignantly. "You said that it would make me as fair as the lily of the valley. Now, I've just ruined my face. Oh oh, oh!"
She began to cry weakly. Aunt Fanny smoothed her hair in an attempt at consolation.
"I'se just a low-down niggah ter make yer cry so, Miss Bee," she said remorsefully. "Dey does use jim'son in de Souf, but mebbe dey puts sompin elsen wid hit. Nebber you mind. Aunt Fanny'll fin' sumpin ter fix yer. Now go down ter yer pa. De brek'fus am gittin' cole, an' yer needs hit hot."
"Go down?" cried Bee in perturbation. "I can't go down like this. You go, and tell father I'm sick. Tell him I can't come. Oh! tell him anything!"
"Beatrice," called her father at this moment from the foot of the stairs, "is anything the matter? You were not at dinner last night. Are you ill that you don't come to breakfast?"
"I reckon yer shorely in fer hit, Miss Bee," spoke Aunt Fanny commiseratingly. "If yer sick he's gwine ter kum up anyhow. De bes' thing is ter go right erlong, and get hit over wid. An' if he scolds hard yer won't nebber forgib me."