"Surely here's signs of a violent struggle. Human, by the
look of it," says he, picking up a thigh-bone and holding it out
towards Mrs. Polwhele.
She began to shake like a leaf. "Oh, Calvin!" she gasps out.
"Oh, Calvin, not in this short time--it couldn't be!"
"Charred, too," says my grandfather, inspecting it: and with that
they turned at a cry from Martha the cook, that was down on hands and
knees upon the carpet.
"Ashes! See here, mistress--ashes all over your best carpet!"
The two women stared at the fireplace: but, of course, that told them
nothing, being empty, as usual at the time of year, with only a few
shavings stuck about it by way of ornament. Martha, the first to
pick up her wits, dashed out into the front hall.
"Gone without his hat, too!" she fairly screamed, running her eye
along the row of pegs.
Mrs. Polwhele clasped her hands. "In the midst of life we are in
death," said Arch'laus Spry: "that's my opinion if you ask it."
"Gone! Gone without his hat, like the snuff of a candle!" Mrs.
Polwhele dropped into a chair and rocked herself and moaned.
My grandfather banged his fist on the table. He never could abide
the sight of a woman in trouble.
Pages:
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285