“Do you mean me?” asked George.
“Not you in particular—everything! If we move the blood rises in our heel-prints.”
He looked at her seriously, with dark eyes.
“I had to drown her out of mercy,” said he, fastening the cord he held to an ash-pole. Then he went to get a spade, and with it, he dug a grave in the old black earth.
“If,” said he, “the poor old cat had made a prettier corpse, you’d have thrown violets on her.”
He had struck the spade into the ground, and hauled up the cat and the iron goose.
“Well,” he said, surveying the hideous object, “haven’t her good looks gone! She was a fine cat.”
“Bury it and have done,” Lettie replied.
He did so asking: “Shall you have bad dreams after it?”
“Dreams do not trouble me,” she answered, turning away.