“Why should I?” said Mrs. Waverlee indifferently. “I have Neighbourhood Hall close by, and the river and the meadows are open to me, and the lanes and high-road, and the pretty winding village street. It is all mine.”
“You queer creature,” said Mrs. Bonstone, but her tone was admiring.
Mrs. Waverlee glanced up at the sky with her strange other-world look. I don’t believe anything in this world counts much with her, except getting human beings ready to go to the next one.
Shall I be there, oh! shall I be there with my dear master? just burst from my dog-heart, one day when I was sitting watching her as she gazed up at the sky.
We were all alone, and that clairvoyante, beautiful woman understood me.
“Dog,” she said with exquisite gentleness, as she laid her hand on my head, “do you think the Creator of this marvellous universe, would ever destroy anything utterly, in which he had placed the spark of life? No—we shall all live again—purified, immortalised, made perfect.”
I licked all the dust off her pretty feet. In her own garden, she wore sandals and no stockings. I wished there was something hard I could do for her—I adore her.