She was alive, then. The night had passed, then. She was
as she had been, herself, her own, still. The surge of young blood
came back in her veins. The morning was there, the hills were
there, the world was there. Hope began once more with the throb of
her perfect pulse. She stretched a round white arm and looked down
it to her hand. She held up her fingers against the light, and the
blood in them, the soul in them, showed pink and clean between.
Slowly she pushed down the patchwork silk. There lay her splendid
limbs and body. Yes, it was she, it was herself, her own. Yes,
she would live, she would succeed, she would win! All of which, of
course, meant to her but one thing--escape.

A knock came at the door, really for the third time, although for
the first time heard. Old Sally entered, bearing her tray, with
coffee.

"Now you lay right still whah you is, Ma'am," she began. "You-all
wants a li'l bit o' coffee. Then I'll bring you up some real
breakfus'--how you like yuah aigs? Ma'am, you suttinly is lookin'
fine dis mawnin'. I'll fetch you yuah tub o' watah right soon now."

In spite of herself Josephine found herself unable to resist
interest in these proceedings. After all, her prison was not to be
without its comforts. She hoped the eggs would be more than two.

The old serving woman slowly moved about here and there in the
apartment, intent upon duties of her own. While thus engaged,
Josephine, standing femininely engaged before her glass, chanced to
catch sight of her in the mirror. She had swiftly slipped over and
opened the door of a wardrobe. Over her arm now was some feminine
garment.

"What have you there?" demanded Josephine, turning as swiftly.

"Jus' some things I'se gwine take away to make room for you, tha'ss
all, Ma'am."

Josephine approached and took up in her own hands these evidences
of an earlier occupancy of the room. They were garments of a day
gone by. The silks were faded, dingy, worn in the creases from
sheer disuse. Apparently they had hung untouched for some time.

[Illustration: They were garments of a day gone by.]

"Whose were these, Sally?" demanded Josephine.

"I dunno, Ma'am. I'se been mos'ly in the kitchen, Ma'am."

Josephine regarded her closely. No sign of emotion showed on that
brown mask. The gray brows above the small eyes did not flicker.
"I suppose these may have belonged to Mr. Dunwody's mother," said
Josephine carelessly.

"Yassam!"