"No, you wouldn't. Take that from me. I've a mind to give 'ee a sip o' currant wine."
Fancy declined this, with many thanks. The talk became desultory, and died down. Fancy dozed off quietly. Mrs. Yellam laid down her knitting and gazed keenly at the pale face bent upon the thin bosom. Spindlin'! Her own word came back to her. She saw that a faint smile curved the girl's lips. Evidently she was dreaming happily. Of what? Solomon rose, stretched himself, and stood beside his mistress. He whined a little. Mrs. Yellam recalled what Fancy had said about his "acting queer."
"She bain't too strong," she muttered.
Solomon whined again and lay down.
Mrs. Yellam's face hardened. The same thought that had assailed Fancy attacked her, burying fangs in her heart.
If things went wrong——?
Resolutely, she put this thought from her. God's ways might be mysterious, but surely, surely He would stand by this frail creature, and temper the wind to her. Even to ask Him to do so seemed impertinent. Prayer came to her lips and fluttered away. She closed them tightly. All would go well, because of those four graves in the churchyard. She had visited them on the previous Sunday. They were certainly a credit to her. She washed the marble cross upon Lizzie's grave twice a year, and planted flowers on each plot. Coming out of church, strangers would pause to look at the Yellam reservation. If they read the carefully-selected inscriptions, Mrs. Yellam would feel much uplifted. In her square, brass-cornered desk, lay a sealed paper containing instructions concerning her own funeral. A plain slab would tell other strangers the date of her birth and death, her name, and her destination. "Gone Home" was to be chiselled upon grey granite, and filled in with leaded letters. Death had never dismayed her. When her work was done, she would be called.
Fancy woke up, still smiling.
"You had a nice doze, dear. Pleasant dreams, too."
"Yes," said Fancy. But she couldn't remember her dreams.