Grannie felt that matters had arrived at a crisis. Whatever the doctors chose to call the suffering which she endured, her right hand was fast becoming useless. It was with her right hand that she supported her family; if it failed her, therefore, her livelihood was cut off. She was a brave little woman; never in all her long life had she feared to look the truth in the face. She looked at it now quietly and soberly. Night after night she gazed at it as she lay in her tiny bed in her tiny bedroom, with a grandchild fast asleep at each side of her. She lay motionless then, in too great pain to sleep, and with the future staring at her. To-night she went to bed as usual. There was no manner of use in sitting up burning lamps and fire; it was far cheaper to lie down in the dark in bed. She lay down and gazed straight out into the deep shadows which filled the little room. It was a moonlight night, and some of the moon's rays pierced through the tiny window, but most of the room lay in shadow, and it was toward the shadow Grannie turned her eyes. "It's all true," she said to herself, "there aint no manner of use in denying it, or turning my face from it--it's true--it's the will o' the Lord. My mother said to me--her as was a Simpson and married a Phipps--she said when my father died, 'Patty, it's the will o' the Lord.' I didn't like, somehow, to hear her say it--the will o' the Lord seemed so masterful like, so crushing like, so cruel. And now the will o' the Lord has come to me. It wor the Lord's will to bless me all my life hitherto, but now it is his will to make things sore dark. Somehow I can't trust and I can't hope, for there's nothing to hope for, and there are the children, four of 'em unable to earn their bread. Harry must make shift to do something, but there are three little ones. Oh, good Lord, don't ever let me hear the children cry for bread!" As Grannie whispered these words out into the darkness, she laid her left hand tenderly on the flaxen head of her youngest grandchild. Her hand stroked down the smooth, round head; the child stirred in her dreams, murmured "Grannie," and turned over on her other side. She was very well, and very happy--as plump as a little button--a bonny, bright-eyed creature. Grannie used to adore her stout legs. "Kitty have always been so well fed," she used to say; "that's the secret--there's nothink like it--nothink." And she had held the fat baby, and by and by the fat little girl, up admiringly for less fortunate neighbors to criticise. Now the fiat had fallen; the bread-winner could no longer earn the family meal, and Kitty and the others would have to do without their bread and butter. "It is true, and it must be faced," thought the old woman. "The p'int to be considered now is, how is it to be faced? Wot's the best way?"