“Then the only psychic thing,” said I, more to myself than to her, “was thought-transference.”
I fell silent, but Mattie knew what was in my mind.
“That last night—” she began, and seemed to strangle.
“Hush, Mattie, it’s all right; nobody believes anything about that fifth night but me, and I’m your friend!”
Her eyes burned into mine, beseechingly.
“I believe you are.” And then her feeble fingers began to pick at the basket-pattern in the quilt. “I never had none,” she said, at length.
“Mattie,” I tried to make her understand, “you have me now to take care of you, and you can have this room and stay here as long as you live.”
“I can still work,” said Mattie, with a tired sigh.
“No, I don’t mean that. I don’t want you to work for me. I just want you to be here and be one of us, and—if you can—be happy.”
Mattie shook her head as if she hardly believed me.