Thankful stared at her.
“Rebecca Timpson!” she exclaimed. “Have you gone crazy? What are you talkin' about? A warnin'!”
“Yes, a warning. I was warned last night. You—you knew I was a twin, didn't you?”
“A which?”
“A twin. Probably you didn't know it, but I used to have a twin sister, Medora, that died when she was only nineteen. She and I looked alike, and were alike, in most everything. We thought the world of each other, used to be together daytimes and sleep together nights. And she used to—er—well, she was different from me in one way—she couldn't help it, poor thing—she used to snore something dreadful. I used to scold her for it, poor soul. Many's the time I've reproached myself since, but—”
“For mercy sakes, what's your sister's snorin' got to do with—”
“Hush! Mrs. Barnes,” with intense solemnity. “As sure as you and I live and breathe this minute, my sister Medora came to me last night.”
“CAME to you! Why—you mean you dreamed about her, don't you? There's nothin' strange in that. When you took that fourth cup of tea I said to myself—”
“HUSH! Oh, hush! DON'T talk so. I didn't dream. Mrs. Barnes, I woke up at two o'clock this morning and—and I heard Medora snoring as plain as I ever heard anything.”
Thankful was strongly tempted to laugh, but the expression on Miss Timpson's face was so deadly serious that she refrained.