Chapter VII: 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?"