Aunt Kate had a way of saying things in that sarcastic tone, and Molly instantly relapsed into embarrassed silence. Dulcie was glancing over the front page of the _Evening Post_, being very careful not to rattle the paper, because the rattling of a newspaper made Grandma nervous. Maud stifled a yawn, and began surreptitiously rubbing her eyes. Maud, being the youngest, was sometimes permitted to go to bed before her sisters, but to-night Grandma was absorbed in her solitaire, and did not notice the yawn. Daisy kept her eyes fixed on the clock. Twenty minutes to eight. Only twenty more minutes, and then they would all be free. They would hurry and get undressed, and when they were in bed perhaps Dulcie would tell them stories about Mamma. She often did after they had said their prayers, and the light was out, and it was all very cozy and pleasant. Mamma had talked to Dulcie just before she died, and told her she must be a little mother to the others, and always be good to them and never let them forget their prayers. Molly had once said that perhaps Mamma was looking down on them from heaven, and that when they were in bed, and Dulcie was talking about her, she came to them, and loved them, although, of course, they could not see her. Daisy and Maud had thought this a beautiful idea, and had been much surprised to hear Dulcie sigh, and say rather sadly: “I hope she doesn’t know about things.” “Why not?” Molly had demanded in astonishment. “I should think you would love to think that perhaps Mamma came to see us.” “I wouldn’t like to have her unhappy about us,” Dulcie answered, gravely, “and I’m afraid she would be unhappy if she knew about Grandma. You can’t remember Danby, and how happy we were there, but I can, and I know how different everything was when Mamma was here.” Daisy wished that she could remember that happy time, too, but the memories were all very dim and indistinct. For five minutes the only sounds to break the stillness of the room were the ticking of the clock and the click of Aunt Kate’s knitting needles. Then the newspaper rustled, and Grandma looked up from her cards for the second time. “Leave that paper alone, Dulcie,” she said, impatiently. “You know the rustling of a newspaper is very unpleasant to me.” “Excuse me, Grandma,” apologized Dulcie. “I’ll try not to do it again. I was so interested in something I was reading, I turned over the sheet to finish it.” “What were you reading?” Grandma inquired suspiciously. “About a man who was killed. They think he was murdered. They found his body----” “Good gracious, child!” cried Grandma, quite forgetting to shuffle her cards in her dismay. “Don’t you know you are not to read such things? Put that paper down at once, and don’t let me see you touch a newspaper again until you are old enough to know what to read, and what to leave alone.” Dulcie blushed.