“It lasts—with Justin,” said Laura. And then—“Gran’papa—Justin is angry with me. We are not engaged any more.” “It was my fault, I do believe,” said Gran’papa to the fire. “Oh, it was my fault,” said Laura. “I think I was mad.” She sat silent. Her thoughts were a bitter sea. Its winds and waves tossed her hither and thither. Her words came again mechanically, as if she did not know that she was speaking, like a child learning lessons it its sleep. “If I could only tell him! If I could only make him see! I mayn’t even write to him. He’s fighting. Any minute may kill him. Mrs. Cloud and Rhoda and Lucy—they all write to him. And I mayn’t.” “Anne wrote to me,” said Gran’papa. “He’d sneer. He’d tear it up. He’d say ‘What’s up now? She might have the decency to leave me alone.’ Can’t you hear him saying it? He doesn’t want me. Why should he, for that matter?” Her fingers locked and relaxed and interlocked again. “If I could only make him understand,” said Laura. “If he dies——” “Anne died,” said Gran’papa. “Gran’papa,” Laura touched his sleeve, “it’s such misery.” “Anne wrote to me,” repeated Gran’papa. She moved restlessly. “I can’t. I’ve no right any more.” She stared across at him, questioning him with tired young eyes. “Gran’papa—why is it? Why have we got to be so awfully unhappy?” He muttered and smiled to himself, half hearing. “_The time—out of joint_—that’s it—_out of joint_. In my young days—April showers in April—May flowers in May. Anne didn’t want a vote.” “There was the Crimea. I suppose there were women—just the same—widows—and lovers——” He drummed on the arm of his chair. “_Something is rotten in the state of Denmark._ Do you ever read Shakespeare, my dear? I advise all young people——The young people have turned the world upside down.” He shivered. “It’s cold.” She got up quietly and shut the window, and sat down again pulling her chair a little nearer to him. “Rain and soft weather and a little sun,” he rambled. “Winter? _We_ used to skate. But now-a-days——” He cleared his throat. His eye brightened. He was the old Gran’papa, declaiming— “_The seasons alter, hoar-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose—the crimson rose_——” His voice faded. He peered at her. “You should go for a walk. White cheeks! White cheeks!” Then—“What’s the date?” “Tuesday, Gran’papa.” “Tut—the month?” “December.” “Ah, it fits—it always fits— _And on old Hyem’s thin and icy crown_— Read him! Read him! There’s a man! And died at fifty—thirty years too young to know old Hyem’s ways. But _he_ knew!” He chuckled. “I’d like to have met him,” said Gran’papa condescendingly. He stared across at his granddaughter, lost in her own thoughts. His expression changed. He leaned forward, touching her hot, locked hands with his cold, papery fingers. “These things pass,” said Gran’papa. He shivered again and glanced over his shoulder. “Very cold. The window——” Laura roused herself.