“Pegeen,” he said, with conviction, “when you aren’t taking care of somebody, you write poetry?”
She looked bewildered.
“No, sir. I haven’t ever. I couldn’t.”
“Well, there’s the making of a poet in you. Did you say the Smiling Lady’s name was Mrs. Moran?”
His voice held a tint of anxiety.
“Miss Moran, it is. She isn’t married.”
“That’s better, much better. Peggy, my child, I like the way you take care of me.”
And that night the ghosts forgot to walk.
II
Archibald wakened, sniffed incredulously, sat up in his hammock bed, and sniffed again.