She opened the swinging door to the kitchen and peeped in cautiously to
see whether Debbie, their black and much pampered cook, was in a good
enough mood to cook her some breakfast.

A cheerful aroma greeted her, and she sniffed at it longingly. Bacon and
eggs and--was it corn bread that Debbie was just taking out of the oven?

"Oh, Debbie, give me something to eat, quick," she cried. "I'm starving."

Debbie turned and favored her with a large black stare.

"Dem dat gets up at nine o'clock in de mo'nin'," she declared, "done
deserves to go hungry, Miss Billie, beggin' your pardon." Her tone
matched the severity of her gaze.

"Oh, but, Debbie," said Billie, using the coaxing tone that even black
Deborah, tyrant of the household, could never quite resist, "remember how
many mornings I have had to get up at seven and go out in the drizzling
rain and--"

"All right, honey, all right," said Deborah, her heart touched by this
reference to the hardships her young mistress had suffered. "You go in
'tother room an' don't bother Debbie an' she'll bring you in the
prettiest breakfast you ever did see."

Somewhat cheered by this promise, Billie retreated into the sun-flooded
dining-room, and, going over to a window under which flowers bloomed
gayly in boxes, looked out at the pretty view.