ing before Marley hastily covered it up—just a glimpse, not enough to read a single word, just enough to marvel a little at the wiper's hand. Marley was a pretty good penman.
Marley, of course, being on night duty slept daytimes, but the afternoon Regan brought Mrs. Coogan back to the cottage he must have heard them coming, for he was standing in the little sitting-room when they came in.
Mrs. Coogan kind of hesitated on the threshold, then she called out quickly in a faltering way:
"Marley, Marley, is that you?"
Marley was twisting his hands nervously. His eyes shot a rapid glance from the old lady to the master mechanic, and then the eyelids fluttered down.
"Sure," he said, "it's me."
She stumbled toward him and burst into tears, crying as though her heart would break.
"Marley, Marley," she sobbed, "don't lave them do ut. Don't lave them do ut, there's a good bhoy, Marley."
Marley never moved, just licked his lips with his tongue and his face grew whiter. Queer, the way he acted? Well, perhaps. Never a move to catch the frail, tottering figure, never a word to soothe the pitiful grief. He stood like a man listening as a judge pronounces his doom. Oh, yes, queer, if you like. Marley, whatever else he was, was a contradictory specimen.
It was Regan who caught the old lady in his arms, and led her gently into her bedroom off the parlor.
