The Rose

The next morning Aunt Fanny had a hard time of it. Her mistress was
petulant; there was no sunshine in the bright August day as it appeared
to her. Toward dawn, after she had counted many millions of black sheep
jumping backward over a fence, she had fallen asleep. Aunt Fanny obeyed
her usual instructions on this luckless morning. It was Beverly's rule
to be called every morning at seven o'clock. But how was her attendant
to know that the graceful young creature who had kicked the counterpane
to the foot of the bed and had mauled the pillow out of all shape, had
slept for less than thirty minutes?

How was she to know that the flushed
face and frown were born in the course of a night of distressing
perplexities? She knew only that the sleeping beauty who lay before her
was the fairest creature in all the universe. For some minutes Aunt
Fanny stood off and admired the rich youthful glory of the sleeper,
prophetically reluctant to disturb her happiness. Then she obeyed the
impulse of duty and spoke the summoning words.

"Wha--what time is it?" demanded the newcomer from the land of Nod,
stretching her fine young body with a splendid but discontented yawn.

"Seben, Miss Bev'ly; wha' time do yo' s'pose hit is? Hit's d' reg'lah
time, o' co'se. Did yo' all have a nice sleep, honey?" and Aunt Fanny
went blissfully about the business of the hour.