Part 28 (2/2)

”I was four years old at the time. And I was playing in the street just opposite to our house with some other children. A great dog came rus.h.i.+ng down on us, snapping right and left. Folks said afterwards he was mad, but I don't know. Someway he was killed, so Father told me, before that was made certain; killed and buried.”

”A mad dog! My!”

”The other children ran away. I--I didn't.”

”Why ever not?”

”I couldn't. I stood still, all of a dreadful tremble. And he came bang at me.”

”What a fearsome tale! You pore lil' maid!”

Up to this point of the narrative, Fancy had generally received just such sympathy, particularly when telling the story to mothers. She paused; her cheeks flushed; but her large eyes rested tranquilly upon the eyes of Susan Yellam.

”Well, dear, go on!”

”When the dog was quite close, I saw Mother.”

Mrs. Yellam gasped.

”You saw your mother, who was dead!”

”I never think of Mother as dead. Yes, I saw Mother standing between me and the dog. She never looked at me; she looked at the dog. And the dog saw her.”

”I never heard such a tale in all my life.”

”The dog saw her. He stopped of a sudden, turned, and went back--howling. And I howled, too. Mother turned as the dog turned, and give me one beautiful look. Then she went.”

Mrs. Yellam grasped the arms of her chair, still staring into Fancy's artless face. But no outburst of incredulity escaped from her as Fancy had feared it would. Her logical mind grappled with the facts as presented. She said, after a long pause:

”You thought you saw her.”

”No. I did see her--plain as plain.”

”But, Fancy dear, seeing as she died afore you was born, how did 'ee know 'twas she?”

”I'd seen Mother ever so often before.”

”When and how?”

After some hesitation, Fancy narrated, with many details, her psychic experiences not only with her mother but with the four Evangelists. The girl's mordant anxiety that the astounding tale should be believed bit deep into the elder woman's heart. To Fancy's delight no incredulity was expressed. And Mrs. Yellam's face remained calm and kind. Solomon listened, also, with singular alertness and an eager intelligence which, to Fancy, indicated full belief. Indeed, Solomon seemed to be saying to himself: ”Yes, yes, we know about that. We see things every day that would astonish all of you, if we were allowed to talk about them.” And, in the middle of the story, the dog, that never showed any affection for others in the presence of his mistress, leapt suddenly into Fancy's lap and remained there. Long afterwards, Mrs. Yellam admitted that this mark of confidence upon Sol's part had impressed her. Inwardly she explained things quite to her satisfaction. She beheld Fancy as a four-year-old, a tiny mite, all eyes, physically weak, the victim of a perfervid imagination. Her own little girl, Lizzie, physically robust, would invent somewhat similar stories about tramps and sweeps quite as apocryphal as these tales of communings with Matthew and Mark. She remembered smacking Lizzie, and telling her that she was a little liar.

No doubt, Fancy's father, rather a weakling, has encouraged the mite.

Since Alfred's engagement, Mrs. Yellam had met Mr. Broomfield, and summed him up trenchantly as half a man.

However, she kept such thoughts to herself, saying quietly:

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