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Updated: June 11, 2025
Do you mind if I call you Popsy?" "Huh?" He had been really startled at that. If he needed any further proof of Dearest's independent existence, that was it. Never, in the uttermost depths of his subconscious, would he have been likely to label himself Popsy. "Know what they used to call me in the Army?" he asked. "Slaughterhouse Hampton.
You remember I've told you that she looks like Dearest." Jane's voice dropped on the last word. Silence fell upon the two as each thought of the beloved dead. "Dad, you don't know how much it helped me last year in college to have Dearest's picture with me," Jane finally said. "It was almost as if she were right there with me, her own self, and understood everything.
"No, gentlemen, it is the ambulance," he corrected. "My spirit-control says...." He relayed Dearest's descriptions to them. T. Barnwell Powell blinked. A speculative look came into the psychiatrist's eyes; he was probably wishing the commitment paper hadn't been destroyed.
They claimed I needed a truckload of sawdust to follow me around and cover up the blood." He chuckled. "Nobody but you would think of calling me Popsy." There was a price, he found, that he must pay for Dearest's companionship the price of eternal vigilance. He found that he was acquiring the habit of opening doors and then needlessly standing aside to allow her to precede him.
Besides himself and the kitten, Smokeball, there was one other at "Greyrock" who was aware, if only faintly, of Dearest's presence. That was old Sergeant Williamson, the Colonel's Negro servant, a retired first sergeant from the regiment he had last commanded.
"It makes me feel very queer," he said; "it makes me feel queer!" The Earl looked at the boy in silence. It made him feel queer, too queerer than he had ever felt in his whole life. And he felt more queer still when he saw that there was a troubled expression on the small face which was usually so happy. "Will they take Dearest's house from her and her carriage?"
But now, since the cruel hand of Death had closed my dearest's eyes, I seemed in my thoughts a stranger to the world; my privy counsellor being gone, I was like a ship without a pilot, that could only run before the wind.
Fate set each of them apart to dree a separate weird. In a house of long years of misery the weak become callous to their dearest's agony. The hard, strong characters are kindest in the end; they will help while their hearts are breaking. But the weak fall asunder at the last. It was not that Mrs. Gourlay was thinking of herself rather than of him.
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