GRANDMOTHER.
"TELL us quick, mother dear," begged the three girls, their curiosity
respecting the "great surprise" wrought to the highest pitch by their
mother's dubious words.
"Well then," disclosed Mrs. Grace, "Margerie's friend—the old lady—has
been here this afternoon."
Three "Oh's!" greeted this announcement, each in a different key;
Margerie's bright and pleased in tone, Maud's indifferent "Is 'that'
all?" but that of Minnie expressing anticipation of some more weighty
communication yet to come.
"Is her arm well?" asked Margerie. "I wonder how she found out where we
lived."
"Her arm is very far from well," replied Mrs. Grace. "Indeed I fear,
from what she says, that she may lose the use of it entirely."
"How sad!" said Minnie. "But what did she come for, mother?"
"Principally to see your father."
"Fancy! How kind of her. We told her he was ill, Margie, you remember.
But I never should have expected this of her—she was so very 'short'
with us when we called."
"You don't expect either, I daresay, Minnie, to hear that she had a
special reason for coming," said Mrs. Grace with a touch of mischief
in her smile; "to hear, for instance, that this old lady is your own
grandmamma."
"MOTHER!!!"
Three rosy mouths opened with amazement, and forgot to close again,
while as many pairs of sparkling eyes, growing round and dark, focussed
their startled gaze on those of Mrs. Grace.
"It is a fact. Margerie, little as she thought it, was making the
acquaintance of her father's mother, whom he had not seen or heard of
for nearly fifteen years."
"Did she know Margerie? How did she find out? We never told her our
name, for she did not ask."
"She heard Margerie mention the name of Grace when she ordered the
grocery that day—"
"Oh, I know!" broke in the little girl.
"But I believe she had some trouble to discover where we live. In the
end, I think she said, she was forced to make inquiries at the shop."
"What made her think that father was her son?" questioned Maud. "I
mean, how did she come to suspect that Margerie was her grandchild?"
"From her likeness to me, she said," replied Mrs. Grace. "She saw me
several times, years ago, and some people never forget a face."
"What ever did father say?" asked Minnie. "Wasn't he pleased?"
"Why!" exclaimed Margerie, with a sudden light breaking in upon her. "I
do believe father guessed it from the first—from what I told him she
was like."
"Your description was so vivid, Margie, that he could not fail to
recognize it," her mother told her.
"And that was why he sent us to ask how she was!" cried Minnie. "I see
it all now. Well, this 'is' an adventure! The 'youngest daughter' has
distinguished herself once more, you see. Why couldn't it have been one
of us?"
Here, then, was something for the girls to talk about. And talk they
did, nineteen—no, nearer three-and-twenty—to the dozen, all tea-time
and half the evening. On the whole, despite the feelings with which
they had been accustomed to regard this unknown grandmother, they
seemed pleased to be able to add her to their somewhat short list of
near relations.
But they had not heard the whole yet. Mrs. Grace, not wishing to give
them too much to think of all at once, had saved what was perhaps the
most important part of her news until next morning. Then they heard
that "the old lady"—as it still came most natural to call her—who had
for years been living quite alone, wanted one of them to pay her a
visit of indefinite duration, for the purpose, chiefly, of rendering
her such assistance and attendance as her recent disablement had
rendered necessary.
An ominous silence greeted this announcement. Maud looked into her
tea-cup, Minnie out at the window, and Margerie straight up into her
mother's face.
Maud was the first to speak. "Of course you wouldn't let us go," she
said.
"I am not sure of that, if either of you were willing," replied Mrs.
Grace.
"Did she say which of us she wanted?" asked Minnie.
"No, not decisively; either, I think, might do."
"You don't want to send one of us away like that, do you, mother?"
questioned Maud, rather apprehensively.
"It would only be for a time, you know," said Mrs. Grace. "I think,
although your father would not insist upon it were you all very much
disinclined, that it would please him greatly could his mother's
wish be gratified. He feels the loneliness of her position, with her
advancing years, acutely. And she owns that her fall has shaken her
more than she at first supposed."
"We don't know her a bit!" exclaimed Minnie with her eyes full of
tears. "And—and it's such a dreadful, horrible, dead-and-buried sort of
an old house!"
"But it is not so very far from home," said her mother. "Whichever
of you went would see us all pretty often. And, besides," she added
seriously, "your grandmother would provide your board and schooling,
which in our present position is, I assure you, my dears, an object. I
am often very, very anxious about your dear father. Unless he gets on
faster than he has been doing, I really don't know how we shall do."
"You are glad to get rid of us, I do believe!" burst out Maud in a
choking voice.
Minnie mopped her eyes in silence.
Little Margerie was very pale, but she was not crying, and had hitherto
said nothing.
"I think you ought to know your own mother better than that, Maud,"
said Mrs. Grace, reproachfully. "I should miss one of my precious three
more than I could tell. But I have just explained to you how things
stand."
"It'll have to be you, you're the eldest," said Maud to Minnie, as they
prepared for school.
"I sha'n't go! It isn't fair!" cried Minnie. "It was I who first
thought of doing without Ellen. I don't see why all the giving-up sort
of things should come to my share. And I'm going to help such a lot in
the house. Mother could do ever so much better without you."
"You help! You won't do much, I know!" rejoined Maud, wrenching the
buttons off her boots as with crimson face she bent to fasten them.
"You're afraid of soiling your hands. I should be sorry for mother to
be left to you."
"I should be sorry for her to be left to 'you!'" retorted Minnie.
"You'd go about your work with a book in one hand and a broom in the
other. Mother would very soon have to send for Ellen back again."
That same night, when both Minnie and Maud had forgotten in dreamless
sleep the vexed question which had caused them to quarrel so sadly a
few hours before, Margerie lay wide-eyed and wakeful in her bed. Her
mind was full of restless thoughts. Thoughts about father and his long
illness, and the heavy doctor's bill mother said they would have to
pay; thoughts about herself, and the shilling a week for her schooling,
and the piles of bread-and-butter, and plates of meat and potatoes she
consumed—she wondered how many cups of cocoa were worth one basin of
beef-tea; thoughts about the poor, lonely old lady with the sorrowful
dark eyes and the "bad" arm; thoughts about her own dear, happy
home,—and her little pillow grew wet.
When Mrs. Grace stole softly into the room to take a last peep at her
girls, Margerie was still awake.
She put up her arms, and drew her mother's face close down to hers.
"Mother, dear," she whispered, "I want to speak to you . . . Do you
think I should be too little to help the old la—to help grandma? Maud
and Minnie hate to go; if they had to, they'd be so miserable. And I
think she likes me. And I would try to be useful. Do you think I could,
mother, dear?"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]