"My dinner," said he, pointing to the eggs. "If I didn't listen for the cackling of the hens I'd starve to death. I can't eat anything but eggs; and they must be fresh. That infernal Dutch girl spoiled my supper last night. She ran over me, as usual, and broke my eggs. I wish she was dead."
"They ought to hobble her like a horse," said Milford.
"They ought to break her bones, and I would if I was strong enough," the old man declared. "She kindled a fire with my spiritualist books. Are you a spiritualist?"
"No, I'm merely an ordinary crank."
"Fool, you mean," said the old fellow. "A man that shuts his eyes to the truth is a fool. See this?" He took from his pocket a pale photograph, and handed it to Milford. "That's a picture of my wife, taken ten years after the change. She came to see me not long ago, and I cut off a piece of her dress. Here it is." From a pocketbook he took a piece of white silk.
"They dress pretty well over there," said Milford, examining it.
"Looks as if it might have been done by a fine machine."
"It was; it was woven in the loom of her mind. Over there, whatever the mind wills is done. But you can't make fools understand it."
"I suppose not. What will become of the Dutch girl when she goes over?"