“Grandfather, what's the matter with the house?” but still only “Poor old man ... poor old man ... nobody loves him ... nobody loves him ... to hell with the lot of 'em ... let 'em grizzle in hell fire ... oh! such nasty pains for a poor old man.” “Grandfather, what's the matter with the house?” The old brown hand suddenly stopped clenching and unclenching, and out from the cushions the old brown head with its few hairs and its parchment face poked like a withered jack-in-the-box. “Hullo, boy, you here?” “Grandfather, what's the matter with the house?” The old man's fingers, sharp like pins, drew Peter close to him. “Boy, I'm terribly frightened. I've been having such dreams. I thought I was dead--in a coffin....” But Peter whispered in his ear: “Grandfather--tell me--what's the matter with every one here?” The old man's eyes were suddenly sharp, like needles. “Ah, he wants to know that, does he? He's found out something at last, has he? _I_ know what they were about. They've been at it in here, boy, too. Oh, yes! for weeks and weeks--killing your mother, that's what my son's been doing ... frightening her to death.... He's cruel, my son. I had the Devil once, and now he's got hold of me and that's why I'm here. Mind you, boy,” and the old man's ringers clutched him very tightly--“if you don't get the better of the Devil you'll be just like me one of these days. So'll he be, my son, one day. Just like me--and then it'll be your turn, my boy. Oh, they Westcotts!... Oh! my pains! Oh! my pains!... Oh! I'm a poor old man!--poor old man!” His head sunk beneath the cushions again and his muttering died away like a kettle when the lid has been put on to it. Peter had been kneeling so as to catch his grandfather's words. Now he drew himself up and with frowning brows faced the room. Had he but known it he was at that moment exactly like his father. He went slowly up to his attic. His little book-case had gained in the last two years--there were now three of Henry Galleon's novels there. Bobby had given him one, “Henry Lessingham,” shining bravely in its red and gold; he had bought another, “The Downs,” second hand, and it was rather tattered and well thumbed. Another, “The Roads,” was a shilling paper copy. He had read these three again and again until he knew them by heart, almost word by word. He took down “Henry Lessingham” now and opened it at a page that was turned down. It is Book III, chapter VI, and there is this passage: