Grannie said nothing, only she went very white again. But father took up the notion at once. He said it was folly to be keeping up two homes, and the quicker we moved the better. So the bills were run up higher still, in getting lots of new things to make the other house quite ready; for mother was set on having all "genteel," as she said. It was settled that we were to get in before Christmas Day, and father began trying to find somebody to buy the cottage. Grannie was very loth to have the cottage sold. She stood out for awhile, and it could not be done without her consent. She wanted it to be only let; so that it might be ours still, if we ever wanted it again. But father was very much vexed, for he wanted the ready money; and he told her she always thwarted him in everything, and he threatened to go and borrow a hundred pounds right away from Mr. Simmons. Grannie gave in at last, but how she did cry! I think she and I both hoped father would not succeed. But he did, for there was a run upon the place in those days; and he was in such a hurry to get the matter settled, that he was willing to take less than the real value of the cottage, on condition that he should have quick payment. It was not long before he came in and told us that the thing was done. "Grannie, are you very sorry?" I asked of her that night, when we were up in our little room, and she sat down in a sort of tired-out way on the foot of the bed. "Mayhap I shouldn't be," she said. "It's no real harm for me to have my heart pulled loose from this world, and set on things higher." And she began to murmur, in a sort of half-singing voice, which quavered a little— "'My rest is in heaven, my rest is not here; Then why should I murmur when trials are near? Be hushed, my dark spirit, the worst that can come But shortens thy journey, and hastens thee home.'" "O don't, please, grannie," I said. "I don't want you to think of that." "I'm always thinking of it," she said. "That's my only home now, Phœbe. I've no home again in this world. You young things can take to fresh places easy enough, and it's only right. But I can't. I'm like an old tree pulled up by the roots. It'll never take kindly to another soil. I think uprooting means dying in such a case. Not that I'm murmuring, my dear. One must have trouble. And if it wasn't for the change in Miles, I could stand other things easier." "You aren't so very old, grannie," I said. "I wish you wouldn't talk about dying, please. You work ever so much harder than mother does. And we'll all be together, and I'll be such a good girl, and I think we shall be happy. Don't you think so? Won't you try, grannie?" And I know I looked at her in a beseeching sort of way. "O yes, I'll try," said she. "I don't doubt but what I'll be happy. I couldn't be aught else, with the thought of God loving and caring for me. But it won't be home, Phœbe, my dear." And I knew she spoke truth, though I tried not to think it.