FURTHER ADVENTURES OF THE ANGEL IN THE VILLAGE. XXIX. "That's all right," said Crump when the bandaging was replaced. "It's a trick of memory, no doubt, but these excrescences of yours don't seem nearly so large as they did yesterday. I suppose they struck me rather forcibly. Stop and have lunch with me now you're down here. Midday meal, you know. The youngsters will be swallowed up by school again in the afternoon." "I never saw anything heal so well in my life," he said, as they walked into the dining-room. "Your blood and flesh must be as clean and free from bacteria as they make 'em. Whatever stuff there is in your head," he added _sotto voce_. At lunch he watched the Angel narrowly, and talked to draw him out. "Journey tire you yesterday?" he said suddenly. "Journey!" said the Angel. "Oh! my wings felt a little stiff." ("Not to be had,") said Crump to himself. ("Suppose I must enter into it.") "So you flew all the way, eigh? No conveyance?" "There wasn't any way," explained the Angel, taking mustard. "I was flying up a symphony with some Griffins and Fiery Cherubim, and suddenly everything went dark and I was in this world of yours." "Dear me!" said Crump. "And that's why you haven't any luggage." He drew his serviette across his mouth, and a smile flickered in his eyes. "I suppose you know this world of ours pretty well? Watching us over the adamantine walls and all that kind of thing. Eigh?" "Not very well. We dream of it sometimes. In the moonlight, when the Nightmares have fanned us to sleep with their wings." "Ah, yes--of course," said Crump. "Very poetical way of putting it. Won't you take some Burgundy? It's just beside you." "There's a persuasion in this world, you know, that Angels' Visits are by no means infrequent. Perhaps some of your--friends have travelled? They are supposed to come down to deserving persons in prisons, and do refined Nautches and that kind of thing. Faust business, you know." "I've never heard of anything of the kind," said the Angel. "Only the other day a lady whose baby was my patient for the time being--indigestion--assured me that certain facial contortions the little creature made indicated that it was Dreaming of Angels. In the novels of Mrs Henry Wood that is spoken of as an infallible symptom of an early departure. I suppose you can't throw any light on that obscure pathological manifestation?" "I don't understand it at all," said the Angel, puzzled, and not clearly apprehending the Doctor's drift. ("Getting huffy,") said Crump to himself. ("Sees I'm poking fun at him.") "There's one thing I'm curious about. Do the new arrivals complain much about their medical attendants? I've always fancied there must be a good deal of hydropathic talk just at first. I was looking at that picture in the Academy only this June...." "New Arrivals!" said the Angel. "I really don't follow you." The Doctor stared. "Don't they come?" "Come!" said the Angel. "Who?" "The people who die here."