The wretched hostelry lived long in her
secret catalogue of terrors. Her bed was not a bed; it was a
torture. The room, the table, the--but it was all too odious for
description. Fatigue was her only friend in that miserable hole. Aunt
Fanny had slept on the floor near her mistress's cot, and it was the
good old colored woman's grumbling that awoke Beverly. The sun was
climbing up the mountains in the east, and there was an air of general
activity about the place. Beverly's watch told her that it was past
eight o'clock.
"Good gracious!" she exclaimed. "It's nearly noon, Aunt Fanny. Hurry
along here and get me up. We must leave this abominable place in ten
minutes." She was up and racing about excitedly.
"Befo' breakfas'?" demanded Aunt Fanny weakly.
"Goodness, Aunt Fanny, is that all you think about?"
"Well, honey, yo' all be thinkin' moughty serious 'bout breakfas' 'long
to'ahds 'leben o'clock. Dat li'l tummy o' yourn 'll be pow'ful mad
'cause yo' didn'--"
"Very well, Aunt Fanny, you can run along and have the woman put up a
breakfast for us and we'll eat it on the road. I positively refuse to
eat another mouthful in that awful dining-room. I'll be down in ten
minutes."
She was down in less. Sleep, no matter how hard-earned, had revived her
spirits materially. She pronounced herself ready for anything; there was
a wholesome disdain for the rigors of the coming ride through the
mountains in the way she gave orders for the start.
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