"Do scream low, like a 'spectable ole woman!" cried the unsympathising Vic; "yer'll hab de whole house out."
"I don't keer," moaned Clorinda: "I don't keer."
"Why don' yer get up?" demanded Victoria.
"I'll 'sist yer, I'll 'sist yer," said Dolf, making another sidelong movement.
Clorinda endeavored to help herself, but the effort was a failure, and there she lay covered with confusion, for she could not think of giving the real cause of her continued prostration. The truth was she had knocked one high heel from a pair of Mrs. Harrington's French boots, which that lady was not likely to miss before morning; and had sprained her ankle in the process, a very unpleasant situation for a modest and churchgoing darkey to find herself in, late at night, and her lover looking on.
"Be yer gwine to lay dar all night!" asked Vic.
"I kin't get up, I tell yer," said Clo.
"Is yer bones broke?"
"Smashed. One of 'em am smashed," answered Clo, ruefully.
"No, no; Miss Clory, not as bad as dat," said Dolf; "don't petrificate us wid sich a idee. Jis let me sist yer now."