“I have never,” continued Corin, still reflective, “seen a spirit, but I firmly believe that one might be seen under favourable conditions.”
“Come and eat,” laughed John.
Mrs. Trimwell eyed Corin for a moment in hesitating fashion. Then she spoke with the air of one embarking on a weighty question, though addressing herself to John.
“There’s never no knowing, sir, what it mightn’t be given you nor any one to see. I seed an angel myself once.”
Corin paused in the act of handing John a plate on which reposed one of the soles.
“An angel!” he ejaculated.
John took the plate.
“An angel!” he echoed dubious.
“I seed it,” reiterated Mrs. Trimwell, “as plain as I see you. I was doing my bit of ironing, the baby—that’s the youngest, sir—asleep in the cradle under the table, so as I could give the rocker a jog with my foot now and again, and the angel comed in.”
She paused, watching the effect of her words.