“She’s dead—dead here. I sometimes wish she would come, Liddy. But I wouldn’t speak to her if she were to come—that common sailor’s wife—and he a Tory! I wouldn’t—would you, Liddy?”
“Yes, mum.”
“You would? Tell me why now.”
“Because she is Annie. You would too.”
Mis’ Overfield gave a great sob and threw her apron over her head, and said in a muffled voice:
“What made you say that, Liddy?”
“There may come a day when Annie can not come back. The earth binds fast—the grave does. Think what you might have to reflect upon.”
“I, Liddy—I?”
“Yes. And there are more folks in some old houses than one can see always. They come back. There’s been a dead soldier here already. I saw him. And last night I heard the latch of the back door lift up three times.”
“Oh, Liddy! Nothing can ever harm us if we do just right. It was Annie that went wrong, not I. What do you suppose made the latch lift up?”