"But if we live in another house away from you—and if they tell me to do things that are wrong! O grannie! do come with us," I cried; and I turned and caught hold of her dress, and held it fast. "It's only you that can keep us straight." "Only me!" said she. And she sat looking before her, not at me but at something which I could not see, as it were, and a sort of glow came into her face, as it was wont to do, once in a way. And I cried again, holding her tightly still, "O grannie! don't let us be apart. Everything will go wrong in the new house, if you won't come there with us." "You're right and you're wrong, Phœbe," she said at last, arousing herself and fixing her eyes upon me. "You're wrong and you're right. Yes—wrong. For it isn't I that can keep you straight—you nor any of them. I,—why I can't keep myself, much less other folks! It's God that can keep you straight, and none other." Then, after a little pause, she went on— "But you're right too, and I see it now. I can't keep you right, but maybe God would use me. It's little enough I could do; but what if He wants me to do that little? Yes—I see now. I've been clinging in thought to the old home—and I do cling, and I love the very walls and boards; and a new home at my time of life would be nigh a heart-break to me, after all the years and years I've lived here, first with your grandfather, and then with your father. But I've been forgetting to ask what was the right thing for me to do. It isn't sense for me to cling more to boards and rafters than to living flesh and blood. And after all, you'll need me more than the old home will. It's a dear old home to me, Phœbe. But love may be selfish, and I think mine has been so. I'll have to keep stricter watch for the future. And if you all go, I'll come too. Maybe it'll not be for long—that's as God wills. But I'll not leave you to fight on alone, till God calls me—and then I'll have no choice, and I'll be content to leave the rest to Him. So we'll go all together, Phœbe. Will that set your mind at rest, child?" "O grannie! it's all I wanted," I said. "Everything's sure to go straight now." But she shook her head and said, "It's the old old story,—leaning on a broken reed. I suppose it isn't till the reed gives way under us, that we turn to lean on God." CHAPTER VIII. THE NEW HOUSE. IT was only two or three days after that Sunday afternoon, that we heard of the money being sure to us. The matter had been gone into, and James Morison had done his very best to prove that his old father was crazed at the time of the making of the will. I dare say he believed it himself, after a fashion. Most people can manage to believe a thing, if they want it very much to be true. But there was no real proof, and his case broke down. A good many people were ready to say what a shame it was of the old man to disinherit his son; but none had power to undo the deed done.