She and father talked it over one day, when grannie was not at hand. Father said he knew grannie would never leave the cottage; and mother said, it did not matter, for we should be quite near. Father said, it did matter, for there would be nothing straight without her, and nobody to do the work and the cooking, "and Phœbe couldn't manage all that alone." Mother said, "No, of course not, but we would keep a girl like the Raikes', and manage so." Father said he didn't see who would cook. And mother said, "Phœbe would, of course." Father said he didn't see why I was to drudge while others took their ease; but it was no good talking, for if grannie wouldn't come too, he should not leave the cottage. Mother pouted, and said that father cared more for grannie than for her. Father said it wasn't true; and mother said, yes, it was, or he wouldn't want her to live in a horrid little pokey hole, when he could afford her a nice house as well as not. And then she cried, and talked about her own home, when she was a girl, and wished she had never left it. Mother's father had been a tallow-chandler, and well-to-do, and mother had been a spoilt child. Just when they got so far, grannie walked in. She heard mother's last words, and asked what it all meant. Father told her, and she said—"What's your wish, Miles?" "I don't want to go without you, mother," says he. "I've never lived apart from you yet, and I don't mean to, if I can help it. I should think of you as lonesome here; and we should want you too." "But that's your only reason?" says she. "You've no feeling at leaving the old place." "Well, no—can't say as I have," said father. "I shouldn't mind a scrap more room to turn round in." "And the money?" said she. "Oh, that's all right," says he. "I'm going to invest, so as it'll bring us in nigh upon five hundred a year." "Mr. Scott didn't count so much to be safe." "Mr. Scott don't know everything," father said. "I suppose I'm as good a judge as most. I'm not going to throw the money away, mother, you may be sure. But supposing we say four hundred a year,—it don't make so much difference. We can afford a bigger house than this, anyway." "Well, you must do what you think best," grannie said. "You're not a boy now, to take an old woman's advice. A man must look out for himself. I'll leave you to settle about the other house, Miles. It don't so much matter to me. I'm an old woman, and I can't look to live in any house many more years. I did say at first that I never would of my own free will go out of this, where I've been all my married life. But maybe that was selfishness. Maybe I could be of more use going than staying. If it's God's will for me, I'm willing—that's all. So you needn't think about me, Miles. If you both feel it's the best and right thing to do, I'll come with you." Father seemed very pleased. I had not seen him so kind for a good while past. He said more than once—"That's right, mother—things'll go straight now."