Flo struck a match, and lit a small end of tallow candle, and the lame girl tumbled down the ladder and squatted on the floor by her side.
“Oh dear!” she said, “ain’t this a stiflin’ ’ole? why ’tis worse nor ’ourn.”
“Wot’s ‘Read and Pray,’ Janey?” asked Flo.
“My!” said Janey, “ef yer ain’t a real worry, Flo Darrell. Read—that’s wot the Board teaches—and pray—Our—Father—chart—’eaven—that’s pray.”
“And ‘Sing Glory,’ wot’s that?” continued Flo.
“That!” laughed Janey, “why that’s a choros, you little goose. Niggers ’ave alwis choroses to their songs—that ain’t nothink else.”
“Well, ’tis pretty,” sighed Flo, “not that I cares for nothink pretty now no more.”
“Oh! yes yer will,” said Janey with the air of a philosopher. “Yer just a bit dumpy to-night, same as I wor wen I broke my leg, and I wor lyin’ in the ’orspital, all awful full o’ pain hup to my throat, but now I ’as on’y a stiff joint, and I doesn’t mind it a bit. That’s just ’ow you’ll feel ’bout Dick by and by. ’Ee’ll be lyin’ in prison, and you won’t care, no more nor I cares fur my stiff joint.”
Flo was silent, not finding Janey’s conversation comforting.
“Come,” said that young person after a pause, “I thought you’d want a bit o’ livenin’ hup. Wot does yer say to a ghost story?”