“I'll defend you,” said Nannie bravely.
“You! Oh, you atom! you molecule! you microbe! What can you do?”
“Be quiet. You are dead—do you hear? You're dead—dead as a doornail; dead as a mummy—the mummy that walked the streets of Thebes when Moses was a young man.”
“Nannie!”
But Nannie did not hear, for she was running to meet the enemy, a bit of a man who looked like a woodland sprite as he walked along the edge of the ravine. In contrast with the big figure that lay prone upon the divan, his size was really ridiculous. Had his pettiness been merely external, that would not have mattered. Small men have been known to tower as giants before us. Luther was called the little monk, and the Corsican who altered the world's map was of still smaller proportions.
This little creature, however, was the reverse of Julia Ward Howe's youthful daughter, who announced to an offending visitor that she was “big inside,” inasmuch as he was made on a small pattern, within as well as without.
His petty face was all puckered up when Nannie encountered him, and his rasping voice was at its most irritating pitch.
The moment he was within hailing distance he began his complaint, heedless even of the courtesy of a greeting. He declared he was too exhausted to take another step; that he had lost his wife, and he asked if Nannie had seen her.
“Oh, Mr. Seymour! Hilda—Hilda—is—at my house—dead.”
“Dead!” he fairly screamed.