But Aunt Moll went through all the phases of the potential mood—"commanding, exhorting"—in vain. Her young mistress neither moved nor stirred.
"Now, Miss Sibyl, do get up—please do. De Lord knows I's 'fraid you'll cotch de rheumatiz in yer bones. Most oncomfortablest thing as ever was; 'specially fore a rain storm, when ebery j'int feels as if dere was forty hundred cross-cut saws a going t'rough it. Come, chile—come, git up, an' let yer ole mammy ondress you, an' put yer to bed."
And Aunt Moll shook the supposed sleeper gently.
Sibyl lifted her head, and half rose, disclosing a face so pale and haggard, a form so sunken and collapsed, that Aunt Moll started back in terror.
"What on airth de matter in you, Miss Sibyl? I 'clare to man, if yer ain't almost skeered me out o' my wits, sure 'nuff! Is you sick, chile?"
"Yes, sick at heart!—sick at heart!" said Sibyl, in a despairing voice.
"I knowed sumfin' was de matter wid yer. Well, git up like a good chile, and let me git some catnip tea for you, it's the best cure in the world for sich complaints."
"Oh, Aunt Moll, leave me. My illness is beyond your art. 'Not poppy nor mandragora can ever medicine me to that sweet sleep' I once slept beneath this roof."
"Now, chile, don't say so," said Aunt Moll, touched by her hopeless tone. "Folks ain't tuk so sudden as all dat, you know. I ain't got no poppy nor man dragoon; but catnip tea is jes' as good, cordin' to my way o' thinkin'. An' when you take a good night's res', you'll be all well in de mornin'—please de Lor'."
"Rest! Rest! When shall I rest again? Aunt Moll, leave me. I want to be alone."