HILDEGARDE was shown to her room by Sampson's wife, a bronze negress who, like her husband, was descended from a long line of dependents who had served several generations of Carews.
Yet Sampson and Delia were modern in everything except their dialect and their grammar. They read the papers and took their airings in a rackety runabout. Louis Carew often complained that they had more unmortgaged property than he possessed.
To Delia, going upstairs with Hildegarde, the thing took on the aspect of adventure. When she entered the library Carew had made the simple announcement:
"This is my daughter, Miss Hildegarde Carew. You remember Miss Elizabeth, Delia? This is her child—and mine. She has come to me now that her mother is dead."
Delia had few sensations in her day's work. This was one, therefore, beyond her dreaming.
"You'll want a nice bath, honey," she said, as they came into the room. "You jes' set and rest while I gits it ready."
Hildegarde had never been waited on. She saw Delia take her bag and thought of the sparseness of
