laughingly. "Everybody's surprised because I'm so youthful. My daughter's coming home this afternoon. That's why I'm so happy. They wouldn't let me go west with her, but when one's as advanced as I young people don't bother much."
Garth experienced a quick sympathy, yet behind the mental deterioration of extreme old age something useful might lurk.
"You slept in the front part of the house last night," he tried. "You probably heard the shot."
She shook her head. Her sunken mouth twitched in a smile a trifle sly.
"Once I drop off it would take a cannonade to wake me up."
For no apparent reason her youthful and atrocious laugh rippled again.
"Please," Garth said gently. "Mr. Taylor—"
"At my age," she broke in, "you say when a younger person dies: 'Ha, ha! I stole a march on that one.’"
She arose and with a curious absence of sound moved towards the door.
"I must go now. I am knitting a sweater. It was for my son-in-law. Now that he's put himself out of the way it might fit you."
The door closed behind her slender figure, and Garth tugged at his watch ribbon, wondering. Her actions had been too determined, her last words too studied. They had seemed to hold a threat. Was she as senile as she appeared, or had she tried to throw sand in his eyes?
