"Thirteen," Ella answers.
"An unlucky number," I venture, hoping to arouse an opinion.
"Are you superstitious?" she asks, continuing to twist tin caps on the pickle jars. "I am. If anything's going to happen I can't help having presentiments, and they come true, too."
Here is a mystic, I thought; so I continued:
"And what about dreams?"
"Oh!" she cried. "Dreams! I have the queerest of anybody!"
I was all attention.
"Why, last night," she drew near to me, and spoke
slowly, "I dreamed that mamma was drunk, and that she was stealing chickens!"
Such is the imagination of this weary worker.