Fiddle liked songs better.  “Sing ‘Jack-Sam bye.’”

Daisy, without her corsets and in disreputable slippers, settled herself to an hour of ease.  She had the negro’s love of the white child, and a sensuous appreciation of the pleasant twilight, the bedtime song, the rhythm of the rocking-chair.

“Well, you lissen,” she said, and rocked in time to the tune.

    Bye, oh, bye, little Jack-Sam, bye. 
    Bye, oh, bye, my baby,
    When you wake, you shall have a cake—­
    And all the pretty little horses—­

Her voice was low and pleasant, with queer, quavering minor cadences.  But Fiddle-dee-dee was not sleepy.

“’Tory,” she begged, when the song was ended.

So Daisy told the story of the three bears.  Fiddle was too young to fully comprehend, but she liked the sound of Daisy’s voice at the climaxes, “Who’s been sittin’ in my chair?” and “Who’s been sleepin’ in my bed?” and “Who’s been eatin’ my soup?” Daisy was dramatic or nothing, and she entered into the spirit of her tale.  It was such an exciting performance altogether that Fiddle was wider awake than ever when the story was finished.

“Ain’ you evah gwine shut yo’ eyes?”

“Daisy, sing,” said Fiddle.

“I’se sung twel my th’oat’s dry,” said Daisy.  And just then Mary came in.  “Isn’t she asleep, Daisy?—­I’ll take her.  Bannister’s John is down-stairs and wants to see you.”

“Well, I ain’ wantin’ to see him,” Daisy tossed her head; “you jus’ take Miss Fiddle whilst I goes down and settles him.  I ain’ dressed and I ain’ ready, Miss Mary.  You jes’ look at them feet.”  She stuck them out for inspection.  Her shoes were out at the toes and down at the heels.  “This ain’ my comp’ny night.”  As she went down-stairs, her voice died away in a querulous murmur.

Mary, with her child in her arms, sat by the window and looked out upon the quiet scene.  There was faint rose in the sky, and a silver star.  But while she watched the rose faded.

Fiddle, warm and heavy in her arms, slept finally.  Then Mary took off her dress and donned a thin white kimono.  She let down her hair and braided it——­

There was no light in the room, and her mother, coming up, asked softly, “Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Fiddle asleep?”

“Yes, Mother.”

Mrs. Flippin found her way to the window and sat down.  “The nurse is here, and a lot of clothes and things just came over for Miss MacVeigh from Hamilton Hill.  Mary, I wish you could see them.”

“I shall in the morning, Mother.”

“The nurse got her into a satin nightgown before I came up, with nothing but straps for sleeves—­but she looked like a Princess——­”

“Aren’t you tired to death, dear?”

Mrs. Flippin laughed.  “Me?  I like it.  I am sorry to have Miss MacVeigh hurt, but having her in the house with all those pretty things and people coming and going is better than a circus.”