“Roll, roll, rolling billow, Smooth, smooth my sleepy pillow, Golden mast and a cedar paddle, For to set my spirit free!” CHAPTER V HOW THE SECOND LINE CAME IN HER FOREHEAD IT was when Grandfather died that the second line came across Grandmother’s clear forehead. Sometimes—when she was playing with the children, for example—it was so faint one hardly noticed it; but again it would be deep, a line of thought—or was it pain?—drawn straight as by a ruler. Manuel noticed it one day, and spoke of it. “You look troubled, Grandmother. What is it?” “I have lost my best friend, Manuel,” said Grandmother. “I may well look troubled; yet it is not trouble either, only sorrow, for missing him, and for wishing I had done more for him.” “No one could have done more,” said Manuel; “you were an angel to him.” He was silent a moment; then he said, “You used to call me your best friend—once. Shall I call you Pitia again, Grandmother?” Something in his tone—or was it something _not_ there?—drew the line deeper across the white forehead. She waited a moment before she spoke, and then answered carefully, keeping an even tone: “Perhaps ‘Grandmother’ is better, Manuel; we are all used to it, you know. Why should we change?” “As you please!” said Manuel; and whether there was more regret or relief in his voice, who shall say? He lingered a moment, hesitating, with words on his lips which seemed to hang, unready for utterance; and Grandmother stood very still, only her breath fluttering a little; but he need not see that, and did not. Suddenly from the garden came a voice, clear, shrill, imperious; Rachel’s voice. “Manuel, where are you? I want you! come, quick.” Manuel gave one glance at the still face; hesitated a moment; then muttering something about “Back soon!” he went out. Little Grandmother stood very still. Sounds crept through her ears,—the clock ticking, the old cat purring on the hearth, the song-sparrow singing loud and clear in the apple-tree outside the sitting-room window,—but she did not heed them. Her eyes were wide open, fixed on the door through which Manuel had gone. It formed a lovely picture, blossoming trees, waving grass (winter had come and gone since Grandfather died), gay flower-beds; but she did not see them. Only when two figures crossed the space, a girl in a scarlet dress, a man at her side, looking down as she laughed up in his face, Grandmother shivered a little, and went over to where the great work-basket stood, and caught up her sewing with a kind of passion. “I have you!” she said. “You are mine, good little stitches dear, kind, good little stitches!”