"A cantankerous old woman," I remember he had called her on that occasion, and had made no further effort to propitiate her.
It was rather a shock, then, to hear Aunt Podgill's name uttered in a loud voice by Allan, as I entered the room, and my surprise deepened into astonishment to find mother was absolutely crying over a black-edged letter.
"Poor Mrs. Podgill is dead," explained Uncle Geoffrey, in rather a subdued voice, as I looked at him.
But the news did not affect me much; I thought mother's handkerchief need hardly be applied to her eyes on that account.
"That is a pity, of course; but, then, none of us knew her," I remarked, coldly. "She could not have been very nice, from your account, Uncle Geoffrey, so I do not know why we have to be so sorry for her death," for I was as aggrieved as possible at the sight of mother's handkerchief.
"Well, she was a cantankerous old woman," began Uncle Geoffrey; and then he checked himself and added, "Heaven forgive me for speaking against the poor old creature now she is dead."
"Yes, indeed, I have a great respect for Aunt Podgill," put in Allan; and I thought his voice was rather curious, and there was a repressed mirthful gleam in his eyes, and all the time mother went on crying.
"Oh, my dear," she sobbed at last, "I am very foolish to be so overcome; but if it had only come in Frank's—in your father's time, it might—it might have saved him;" and here she broke down.
"Ah, to be sure, poor thing!" ejaculated Uncle Geoffrey in a sympathizing tone; "that is what is troubling her; but you must cheer up, Dora, for, as I have always told you, Frank was never meant to be a long-lived man."
"What are you all talking about?" I burst out, with vexed impatience. "What has Mrs. Podgill's death to do with father? and why is mother crying? and what makes you all so mysterious and tiresome?" for I was exasperated at the incongruity between mother's tears and Allan's amused face.