“You’re sure of that, are you?” she inquired. “It’s not the size of a police dog or a mastiff?”
“Not unless it’s grown considerably since I saw it,” I assured her.
“Then,” she said, “I fancy things at Will Hartford’s are in a very bad way. We’d better go there, Lizzie.”
“Do you think that Emmie’s going to die, Tish?”
“I do, indeed,” said Tish dryly. “At eighty or ninety, if I can restrain myself so long, she will pass on. But Will Hartford is in a bad way. And so, I should judge,” she added cryptically, “is the Pekingese dog.”
We left two days later to see Emmie. It suited none of us to go. It was almost time for the annual meeting at the church, where we invariably serve the supper. Also Aggie was having an early attack of hay fever, which the dust of the motor trip did nothing to allay. All in all, only a strong sense of duty took us, a genuine spirit of self-sacrifice; and when I think of that last evening there, with the house full of doctors and policemen, I cannot restrain a certain sense of bitterness.
We acted entirely for the best. If the results were not what we anticipated, surely the fault is not ours. And how true, indeed, are these lines, secured only the other day by Tish through the medium of automatic writing:
There swims no goose so gray but soon or late
She finds some honest gander for her mate.
It was the night before our departure that Tish and I sat together for advice on the situation, Aggie definitely refusing to join us.