"Did she? Better be using her needle, I says."
"No doubt. 'Tis a very odd thing, and food for sober thought, but the lady did foretell as Fancy'd marry a soldier."
"A very foolish, mischievous notion to put i' the maid's head."
Alfred nodded. Then he said portentously:
"It might come true, Mother, if the pessimists be right."
"Pessimists?"
"'Tis a new word to me, and means—crokers, as looks on the dark side of the cloud."
"Well, what do they tell 'ee?"
"'Twas a solitary he. A shoemaker by trade, and a radical. The smell of leather be enough to account for his politics and gloomy views. When I take shoes to him, we always pass time o' day, and I come away thinking 'tis just before dawn on a cold, drizzling, November morning. He says to me: 'My lad, these Proosians may be drinking ale in Salisbury before this war's over.' I laughed at him. And he told me I'd laugh t'other side of my face in six months."
Mrs. Yellam made no comment, a strange abstention. Her firm jaws set beneath strongly-marked brows, her eyes glowered into the future. Mother and son finished the meal in silence.