"Shall I call Jack?" Dorothy inquired, a faint smile of sarcasm touching her lips; and she made a movement as though to reopen the door.
"No, no,—oh no!" exclaimed Aunt Penine in great alarm, as she endeavored to regain her feet.
This she at length succeeded in doing, and stood with one hand against the wall, while she groaned, but in a suppressed way.
Just then Mary Broughton came from a room farther down the hall, where she had been delighting Aunt Lettice with soft melodies drawn from the spinet, upon which both she and Dorothy were skilful performers.
"What is it—is anything amiss?" she asked quickly, coming up to Aunt Penine, and laying a hand on her trembling shoulder.
But Aunt Penine only continued to groan dismally, while her niece, with a laugh she did not try to hide, now came down the steps.
"Aunt Penine was evidently anxious to be of my father's council," she said to Mary; "and I chanced to open the door too quickly for her, so that she slipped down the steps and has twisted her ankle."
Her aunt straightened herself and glanced angrily at the girl, who only laughed again, while Mary Broughton stood regarding her with a puzzled look.
"Shall I help you to your room, Aunt Penine?" Dorothy asked with elaborate politeness, holding out her arm.
"No," snapped her aunt. "I wish no assistance from you, whose sharp tongue seems ever ready with insult for your elders. Mary will help me; and ye may find Tyntie, and send her to my room." With this she hobbled away, leaning heavily upon Mary, who looked back reproachfully at Dorothy.