Barnes?" she asked.
"Have what?"
"Presentiments? Warnings, you know? I've had several in my life and they
have always come to something. I feel as if I was going to have one
now. Heavens! Hear that wind and rain! Don't they sound like somebody
calling--calling?"
"No, they don't. They sound cold and wet, that's all. Dear me, I never
saw such a spell of weather. I thought this mornin' 'twas goin' to
clear, but now it's come on again, hard as ever."
"Well," with dismal resignation, "we'll all go when our time comes, I
suppose. We're here today and gone tomorrow. I don't suppose there's any
use setting and worrying. Be prepared, that's the main thing. Have you
bought a cemetery lot, Mrs. Barnes? You ought to; everybody had. We
can't tell when we're liable to need a grave."
"Goodness gracious sakes! Don't talk about cemetery lots and graves.
You give me the blue creeps. Go to bed and rest up. You're tired, and no
wonder; you've moved no less'n three times since mornin', and they
say one movin's as bad as a fire. Here! Give me that tea-cup. There's
nothin' left in it but grounds, and you don't want to drink THEM."
Miss Timpson relinquished the cup, took her lamp and climbed the stairs.
Her good night was as mournful as a funeral march. Thankful, left alone,
tried to read for a time, but the wailing wind and squeaking shutters
made her nervous and depressed, so, after putting the key under the mat
of the side door for Heman Daniels, who was out attending a meeting of
the Masonic Lodge, she, too, retired.
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