"ENGLAND is a long way off," grandmother said, softly. "Especially at
Christmas time."
She was not talking to any one in particular, but just to herself. She
had been sitting for quite awhile by the parlor window reading her
Bible. Sometimes her eyes were fastened on the page, and sometimes when
a strange step came down the street, she would glance up hurriedly,
almost in an eager way, as if she were watching for some one. Then, when
she saw who it was, her eyes would drop again on the book in a
disappointed fashion. I knew what she would do next. Very slowly she
would turn the pages right to the middle of the Bible, where a picture
lay between the leaves.
"Isn't that father, grandma?" I asked, anxiously, leaning against her
knee.
"No, Rhoda," she said, in that decisive way of hers.