“Pomona!” said I, “what have you been doing?”
“I was a lookin' at the moon, sir, when pop! the chair bounced, and out I went.”
“You shouldn't do that,” I said, sternly.
“Some day you'll be drowned. Take off your wet things and go to bed.”
“Yes, sma'am—sir, I mean,” said she, as she went down-stairs.
When I reached my room I lighted the lamp, and found Euphemia still under the bed.
“Is it all right?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered. “There was no burglar. Pomona fell out of the window.”
“Did you get her a plaster?” asked Euphemia, drowsily.
“No, she did not need one. She's all right now. Were you worried about me, dear?”