Fancy sat down, and began to shuffle the pack. Hamlin would have smiled sorrowfully, had he seen Mrs. Yellam's intent face as the girl's slim fingers dealt out the cards. So it had come to this. Rejecting the faith of sixty years, this poor old woman asked for hope and happiness from a fortuitous arrangement of bits of painted pasteboard! Comedy upon the underlying tragedy. Hamlin knew, of course, that astrologers, mediums, crystal-gazers and the like were doing a roaring trade.
Mrs. Yellam, let it be noted, asked Fancy to bring the cards. Protest had quivered upon Fancy's lips and stayed there.
"Well?"
"It is well, Mother. Alfred will come back. This makes the third time; and, do you know, when I rode up Sol barked and wagged his tail."
"Did he? The dog be full o' fun now."
Fancy went down on her knees; Sol barked at her, and then began to race round the room, playing what Fancy called "mad dog." He ended by leaping, panting, into Mrs. Yellam's lap.
"I believe he knows something, Fancy."
"I'm sure he does. Would he carry on like that if—if Alfred was real bad?"
Thus each woman, in her artless way, consoled the other.
Upon the Tuesday, details reached Mrs. Yellam. Alfred had been shot in the arm; the bone was badly broken; his destination was Netley.