. She was, in fact, making an heroic
struggle against a sudden overwhelming shock.

* * * * *

Recent theories of a double consciousness--an inner self--that have been
worked hard of late years to account for everything Psychology is at a
loss about, might be appealed to to throw light on the changes in Granny
Marrable's state of mind in this past hour. Although to all appearance
the whole of Dr. Nash's efforts to put it on the track had been thrown
away, some of the forces his suggestions had set in motion had told
upon it; and, just as a swift, mysterious impatience in the few clouds
of a blue sky, and a muttered omen from Heaven-knows-what horizon,
precedes the thunder-clap that makes us run for shelter, so this
underself of hers may have vibrated in response to the strange hints he
had thrown out, and become susceptible to an impression from Mr.
Barlow's reference to her likeness to Mrs. Prichard, which otherwise
would have slipped off it like water off a duck's back. We have to
consider how in those happy years of her youth this almost
indistinguishable twinship of the sisters had been a daily topic with
all their near surroundings. To hear herself spoken of as a duplicate
again, after fifty years, carried with it an inexplicable thrill. Oh,
how the hours came trooping back from those long-forgotten days of old,
each with its appeal to that underself alone; which she, the old Phoebe
of this living world, suspected only to disallow! How she might have let
the memories of the old mill and the ever-running wheels; of the still
backwater where she failed to see the heron she could even now hear her
sister's sweet voice calling to her to come--come quickly to!--or she
would miss it; of that dear vanished sister's sweet beauty she could
dwell upon, forgetful that it also was her own,--how she might have let
these memories run riot in her heart, and break it, but that the very
thing that provoked them was also their profanation--Mrs. Prichard at
Strides Cottage! Who or what was Mrs. Prichard? A poor old crazypate, a
victim of delusions....

Yes, but _what_ delusions? That was the question her inner self could
not ignore, however much her living mind might cancel it. She could run
for shelter from it, but the storm would come. She flinched from hearing
another word of Mr. Barlow's woundy chatter, and fled into the house,
actually bearing in her hand the lightning-flash whose thunder-clap wa