“But how?” queried John busy with the sole. “Through the window, the ceiling, or the floor? Angels, you know, are spirits, not corporeal weighty humans like ourselves. They’d never,” concluded John gravely, “make an ordinary, an expected entrance.”
Corin glanced at him sternly.
“I should have imagined you would have held the matter too sacred for joking about,” he remarked.
John smiled gently.
“This one,” said Mrs. Trimwell firmly, “came through the door. I heard the outer door click, and said I to myself, ‘That’s Robert for sure.’ I thought he’d come home a bit earlier. Then the kitchen door clicked. It opened just a little ways, and the beautifullest angel you ever seed comed in all floaty-like. I was that scared I dropped my iron—there’s the heat mark on the baby’s robe to this day—and I made a clean bolt for the back door. I never thought of the baby nor nothing. And as I bolted I squinnied over my shoulder, and I seed that angel by the table all white and shiny.”
Again she stopped, and regarded John, who was eating steadily. To Corin, who was all agog for a continuance of the story, she perversely paid no heed.
“But—” began John dubious.
“You may doubt me as much as you like, sir. I wasn’t going back to that kitchen without a neighbour. I told Vicar myself, sir, and he didn’t believe me neither, though I’m a truthful woman. For as I says to my children: ‘You tell the truth at all costs. If you’re in a hole don’t tell a lie to try and get out of it. Truth will always give you the surest hand up even though her clutch is a bit severe.’ I’d not deceive you, sir, and ’tis the truth I’ve spoken as I spoke it to Vicar. I seed that angel.”
Finality in her tone she stood there, slightly challenging, yet respectful withal.
“Hmm!” mused John. “Your integrity, Mrs. Trimwell, is, I am convinced, above suspicion. Yet why, do you imagine, should the angel come? What, do you take it, was the motive for his visit?”