“To-morrow, then?”
“No, not to-morrow, nor next week, nor next year. She’s through with ye.”
“You infernal hag! What do you know about it? You go tell her to come out or I’ll drag her out.”
The old woman slammed the door in his face and locked and bolted it, and he went away cursing.
There were other callers—the sympathetic, the curious, the evil-minded. There was one answer at the door to all of them: Mrs. Bradley would see no one.
On Sunday evening, at dusk, Barry Malleson came. In response to his knock the old woman opened the door a crack.
“You can’t see her,” she said, before Barry had even a chance to speak. “She don’t see nobody.”
“Maybe,” replied Barry, deprecatingly, “if she knew who it was she might be willing.”
“Don’t make no difference who it is,” responded the old woman. “She wouldn’t see the Lord from heaven.”