We held our breath. I tried to say "get out!" or "lie down!" but
my tongue could not form the words.
"Can't you get up here?" gasped Euphemia.
"I don't want to," said the girl.
The dog now stopped barking, and stood looking at Pomona,
occasionally glancing up at us. Pomona took not the slightest
notice of him.
"Do you know, ma'am," said she to Euphemia, "that if I had come
here yesterday, that dog would have had my life's blood."
"And why don't he have it to-day?" said Euphemia, who, with myself,
was utterly amazed at the behavior of the dog.
"Because I know more to-day than I did yesterday," answered Pomona.
"It is only this afternoon that I read something, as I was coming
here on the cars. This is it," she continued, unwrapping her paper
parcel, and taking from it one of the two books it contained. "I
finished this part just as the cars stopped, and I put my scissors
in the place; I'll read it to you."
Standing there with one book still under her arm, the newspaper
half unwrapped from it, hanging down and flapping in the breeze,
she opened the other volume at the scissors-place, turned back a
page or two, and began to read as follows:
"Lord Edward slowly san-ter-ed up the bro-ad anc-es-tral walk, when
sudden-ly from out a cop-se, there sprang a fur-i-ous hound. The
marsh-man, con-ce-al-ed in a tree expected to see the life's blood
of the young nob-le-man stain the path. But no, Lord Edward did
not stop nor turn his head.
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