"An' lib here nebber no mo'?" cried the little black figure in a shrill scream; "wot, an' hev no leaky sink dat keps me a-swashin' and a-swashin', an' no old ruf dat lets in hull buckets full o' water onter de bed, an'—"
"No," said Caryl, interrupting the steady stream of invective against the old heuse, "everything's to be as new and nice and neat as a pin, Viny—sinks and everything else; you can't begin to think how splendid it's to be!"
"I'm goin' to tell gramma," cried Viny, wholly off her balance, "dis berry same minnit. Lawks! but won't she be tickled to leave the ole shell! Den I'll git my bunnet an' go wid yer, Miss Ca, in tree shakes of a lobster's whisker!"
She scampered in the greatest excitement to the door, when a detaining pull on the end of her long apron, brought her to a full stop.
"You are crazy, child!" exclaimed Caryl, bursting into a laugh and holding her fast. "We can't go this moment, no matter how bad the old house is. Listen, Viny!"
But the small figure flung itself into a heap on the floor so suddenly that she nearly pulled her young mistress with her, while the little black hands clapped themselves over the bead like eyes, wail after wail of disappointment making the room to ring.
"Will you STOP!" cried Caryl in perfect despair. "Aunt Sylvia's head will snap with your noise! If you don't stop crying, Viny, you sha'n't go when the rest of us are ready to move, so there, now."
Threats had the power to do what nothing else could. Viny wiped off all the tears with the backs of her grimy little paws, gave two or three concluding sniffs, sat up straight, and was immediately all right for further developments.
"Now then"—Caryl pointed off her sentences briskly on the tips of her rosy fingers—"you must try to help—well, an awful great deal, Viny, yourself, or else it can't be a moving for any single one of us."
Viny's eyes widened fearfully, but she didn't stir.