“It’s shut, Gran’papa. But I’ll make up the fire.” She bent blindly over the dim hearth. But Gran’papa, with a fretful sigh, got up shakily out of his chair. He was sure the window was open. Then he remembered his birds, clustering on the roof of the drawing-room below, and that he had not fed them. His fingers rattled on the pane as he threw up the sash. Very cold.... The wind slid in like a snake, striking at Gran’papa, but though he shivered he threw out the crumbs and stood watching the instant, twittering turmoil, with a glance now and then at the empty cage, that swung, grazing his skull-cap, overhead. He missed his bird.... Its notes ... particularly fine ... a strain of bullfinch ... inclined to be shrill, of course ... but a wonderful ear ... indeed he had had to cover the cage when he played on his fiddle for any length of time.... It had been—Gran’papa smiled—jealous, positively jealous, of his fiddle.... He thought he might get out his fiddle. He must not let his fingers get stiff.... What was that?... He turned sharply, holding up his finger. Absurd, of course, but he had thought, for a moment, that he heard at his ear the quick ruffling of feathers, the pretty, questioning twitter, that had always been the prelude to full-throated, indignant song.... The cage—— The cage of course was empty. Some bird outside.... He had left the window open.... He tried, in a childish pet against the birds who had tricked his ear, to push down the sash again, but it was stiff and heavy—suddenly too stiff and heavy for Gran’papa. He called peevishly—— “Laura!” But she was adjusting the fire-irons and did not hear. He left it open and turned back again into the room. He was fumbling with his fiddle-case when Laura straightened herself, and with a smile and a show of blackened fingers, slipped out of the room. “Come back,” muttered Gran’papa. She meant to come back when she had washed her hands; but Aunt Adela waylaid her, discovered her using the basin in her room—inconsiderate—making fresh work—when there was the bathroom! Laura, undeniably in the wrong, had, by all unwritten rules, necessarily to pay forfeit to Aunt Adela, to attend without protest to a criticism of her untidy room, to hang up skirts under Aunt Adela’s eye, to dust a mantelpiece and re-adjust ornaments to the high-pitched ripple of Aunt Adela’s voice, and to respond cheerfully in the infrequent pauses. “Yes, Auntie. Oh, of course. Yes—I think you’re right.” That, she thought, was all Aunt Adela wanted.... She hated having her room overhauled.... But, after all, what did it matter—what did anything matter now-a-days, with Justin away at the front ... fighting?... She wondered if he had liked his parcel.... She wondered if he were still alive.... “What did you say, Auntie? Oh, I see. Oh—perfectly disgraceful—I should give her notice——”