"Gabrielle, hurry, do."
"Oui, oui, mademoiselle Hazel;" and Gabrielle tripped across the room with the white kimono in one hand and fresh towels in the other. She had just slipped it upon Hazel when there was a knock at the door. Gabrielle opened it, and Wilkins asked in a voice intended to be low, but which proved only husky:—
"Nuss say she mus' jes' speak wif Marse Clyde 'fo' she come up, an' wan's to know if Miss Hazel will haf her breffus now or wait till she come up herse'f."
Before Gabrielle could answer, Hazel called out, "You may bring it up now, Wilkins; and has the postman come yet?"
Wilkins' broad smile sounded in his voice, as it came out of its huskiness.
"Yes, Miss Hazel, ben jes' fo' I come up. I ain't seen no hearts, but dey's thicker'n spatter by de feel, an' a heap o' boxes by 'spress!"
"Oh, bring them up quick, Wilkins, and tell papa to be sure and come up directly after breakfast."
"Yes, for sho', Miss Hazel," said Wilkins, delighted to have a word with the little daughter of her whom he had carried in his arms thirty-two years ago up and down the jasmine-covered porch of an old New Orleans mansion.
In a few minutes, he reappeared with two large silver trays, on one of which was the tempting breakfast of Hamburg grapes, a dropped egg, a slice of golden-brown toast, half of a squab broiled to the melting-point, and a
