"I was four years old at the time. And I was playing in the street just opposite to our house with some other children. A great dog came rushing down on us, snapping right and left. Folks said afterwards he was mad, but I don't know. Someway he was killed, so Father told me, before that was made certain; killed and buried."
"A mad dog! My!"
"The other children ran away. I—I didn't."
"Why ever not?"
"I couldn't. I stood still, all of a dreadful tremble. And he came bang at me."
"What a fearsome tale! You pore lil' maid!"
Up to this point of the narrative, Fancy had generally received just such sympathy, particularly when telling the story to mothers. She paused; her cheeks flushed; but her large eyes rested tranquilly upon the eyes of Susan Yellam.
"Well, dear, go on!"
"When the dog was quite close, I saw Mother."
Mrs. Yellam gasped.