Adjoining the schoolroom was the drawing-room where Mrs. Avory and the grandfather were sitting together in silence. "Sally's cough is worse," said the grandfather suddenly.
(The Fates were spinning. "Here is a black thread," said One. "Weave it in," said the Other. And the Third sharpened her scissors.)
"Sally's cough is worse," said the grandfather again.
Mrs. Avory looked up from her crocheting. "Hush, father dear!" she said.
"I said Sally's cough is worse," repeated the old man. "I hear it every night."
"No, dear; no, dear," said Mrs. Avory. "Not poor Sally. Sally has been at rest many years. Perhaps you mean Edith. She has a little cold."
"I know Sally's cough," said the old man.
Mrs. Avory put her work down and folded her hands. A slow, icy shiver crept over her and enveloped her like a wet sheet.
"Sally is my favourite grandchild," continued her father, shaking his white head. "Poor little Sally—poor little Sally!"
Mrs. Avory sat still. Terror, heavy and cold, crawled like a snake into her heart. "Edith! It is Edith!" she said.