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Updated: June 4, 2025
Looking back, I am convinced that Mrs. Handsomebody deserves our sympathy. It was Saturday morning, and we three were in Mrs. Handsomebody's parlour Angel, and The Seraph, and I.
It was in Madagascar that I received a message from a dying man, confessing that, shaken by remorse, he had brought what was left of the plunder and buried it in Mrs. Handsomebody's back yard!" "Mrs. Handsomebody's back yard!" We chanted the words in utter amazement. "Just that," affirmed Captain Pegg solemnly.
The Seraph gripped the back of my blouse. We stopped at the door of Mrs. Handsomebody's bedroom. Like Mrs. Handsomebody, it towered above us, pale and forbidding. "I dare you," said Angel, "to open it and stick your head in." I was too drowsy to be timid. I turned the handle and opened the door far enough to insert my round tow head. The room was unutterably still.
Handsomebody's umbrella, and relieving her of the battledore without her having been aware of the negotiation. So we who had expected to be haled to retribution, as criminals of the deepest dye, floated homeward in the serene light of Mrs. Handsomebody's approval. No one spoke till the Cathedral came in view.
We promised, marvelling that bed-clothes could be kept so tidy, and fervently wishing she would display the knee that had been so severely "put out." It was a commonplace for Mrs. Handsomebody's temper to be thus afflicted, but her knee, never. When we returned to the kitchen, we found Mary Ellen sitting in a pensive attitude. Her forefinger pressed against her knit brow, her stout ankles crossed.
"It was thim same innocents that brung him here," said Mary Ellen, stung into disclosing our part in the scandal, "and it's himsilf is their own grandfather." Mrs. Handsomebody's gaze was appalling as she turned it on us three. "You? Your grandfather? What fresh insanity is this?"
Handsomebody's back yard. Angel, fiery, candid, inconstant; the careless possessor of a beautiful boys' treble, which was to develop into the incomparable tenor of today next, myself, a year younger, but equally tall and courageous, in a more dogged way then, The Seraph, three years my junior, he was just five, following where we led with a blind loyalty, "Stubborn, strong and jolly as a pie."
One never-to-be-forgotten day she rollicked into the kitchen proudly carrying Mrs. Handsomebody's solemn black shoe, which had been standing with its mate beneath Mrs. Handsomebody's bed.
Here the timorous Cathedral pigeons strutted unafraid, and dipped their heads to drink of the fountain, raising them Heavenward, as they swallowed thanking God, so the Bishop said, for its refreshment. It was hard to believe that next door, beyond the wall, lay Mrs. Handsomebody's planked back yard. Yet even at that moment I could see the tall, narrow house, and fancied that a blind moved as Mrs.
He had travelled considerably, and had even visited South America, yet he could not have been an engineer like father, building railroads, for he looked very poor. I was sorry when we reached Mrs. Handsomebody's front door. "Good-bye," he said, holding out his hand. But a happy thought struck me. I told him about Mary Ellen's party.
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