“He would have every inducement. These things often happen, you know, here and there.”
“I don’t think so.”
“But I do. One of these days . . . we . . . perhaps. Well; but I am sorry he is ill.”
“Oh, I don’t think he is as ill as all that. He is a poet an’ imagines things.”
“A poet? Does he write poetry?”
“Yes. Leastways he doesn’t write, but he talks beautiful. About stars and things. I can’t understand him half the time, so I just say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ to keep him company. He is a wonderful man.”
“And you must lead a most thrilling life all alone with a poet in that house. Mamma says that the garden was—is very beautiful.”
“Yes, it is full of trees and things.”
“So wild. Such a free life.”
“Free? Well, I don’t know about that. But we have some chickens, only they have to be fed. And there’s the cat. She killed a great big mouse the other day.”