“Oh, no, ma’am,” said Carolyn May faintly. “I can button and unbutton every button. I learned long ago. And my nightie’s right in my bag here.”
“Very well,” said Aunty Rose, and turned away. Carolyn May stood in the middle of the room and listened to her descending footsteps. Aunty Rose had not even bidden her good-night!
Like a marooned sailor upon a desert island, the little girl went about exploring the bedroom which was to be hers—and which had once been her mother’s. That fact helped greatly. Her mother had slept in this very bed—had looked into that cunning, clouded glass over the dressing table—had sat in this very little rocking chair to take off her shoes and stockings—had hung her dress, perhaps, over this other chair.
Carolyn May kept repeating these things as she divested herself of her garments and got into the nightgown that Mrs. Price had freshly ironed for her. Then she looked at the high, “puffy” bed.
“How ever can I get into it?” sighed Carolyn May.
She had to stand upon her tiptoes in her fluffy little bedroom slippers to pull back the quilt, and the blanket and sheet underneath it. The bed was just a great big bag of feathers!
“Just like a big, big pillow,” thought the little girl. “And if I do get into it, I’m li’ble to sink down, and down, and down, till I’m buried, and won’t ever be able to get up in the morning.”
Carolyn May had never seen anything softer to sleep on than a mattress of pressed felt. A feather bed might be all right, but she felt more than a little shy of venturing into it.
The window was open, and she went to it and looked out. A breath of honeysuckle blew in. Then, below, on the porch, she heard the uneasy movements of Prince. And he whined.
“Oh, poor Princey! He doesn’t know what’s become of me,” thought Carolyn May.