And, hiding her face in her hands, she began to cry:
"And I'm their poor little daughter—oh dear, oh dear!"
She wept silently for a while, and I said nothing, but endured an agony such as I cannot describe.
Then she dried her eyes and smiled, and said:
"What a goose I am," and, looking at me—
"Oh! Uncle Bob, forgive me; I've made you very unhappy—it shall never happen again!"
Suddenly the spirit moved me to tell her the story of Martia.
Leah and Barty and I had often discussed whether she should be told this extraordinary thing, in which we never knew whether to believe or not, and which, if there were a possibility of its being true, concerned Marty so directly.
They settled that they would leave it entirely to me—to tell her or not, as my own instinct would prompt me, should the opportunity occur.
My instinct prompted me to do so now. I shall not forget that evening.