"Grand—" you managed to sputter ere the wet rag smothered you. Warily you waited till the cloth went higher, to your puckered eyes. Then, "Grand-m-m—" But that was all, for with a trail of suds the rag swept down again, and as the half-word slipped out, the soap slipped in. So Grandmother dug and dug till she came to the pink stratum of your cheeks, and then it was wipe, wipe, wipe, till the stratum shone. Then it was your hands’ turn, while Grandmother listened to your belated tale, and last of all she kissed you above and gave you a little spank below, and you were done. All through dinner your mind was on the table—not on the middle of it, where the meat was, but on the end of it. "Harry, why don’t you eat your bread?" "Why, I don’t feel for bread, Grandmother," you explained, looking at the end of the table. "I just feel for pie." It was hard when you were back home again, for there it was mostly bread, and no sugar pies at all, and very little cake. "Grandmother lets me have _two_ pieces," you would urge to Mother, but the argument was of no avail. Two pieces, she said, were not good for little boys. "Then why does Grandmother let me have them?" you would demand, sullenly, kicking the table leg; but Mother could not hear you unless you kicked hard, and then it was naughty boys, not Grandmothers, that she talked about. And if that happened which sometimes does to naughty little boys— "Grandmother don’t hurt at all when _she_ spanks," you said. So there were wrathful moments when you wished you might live always with Grandmother. It was so easy to be good at her house—so easy, that is, to get two pieces of cake. And when God made little boys, you thought, He must have made Grandmothers to bake sugar pies for them. "Suppose you were a little boy like me, Grandmother?" you once said to her. "That would be fine," she admitted; "but suppose you were a little grandmother like me?" "Well," you replied, with candor, "I think I would rather be like Grandfather, ’cause he was a soldier, and fought Johnny Reb." "And if you were a grandfather," Grandmother asked, "what would you do?" "Why, if I were a grandfather," you said—"why—" "Well, what would you do?" "Why, if I were a grandfather," you said, "I should want you to come and be a grandmother with me." And Grandmother kissed you for that. "But I like you best as a little boy," she said. "Once Grandmother had a little boy just like you, and he used to climb into her lap and put his arms around her. Oh, he was a beautiful little boy, and sometimes Grandmother gets very lonesome without him—till you come, and then it’s like having him back again. For you’ve got his blue eyes and his brown hair and his sweet little ways, and Grandmother loves you—once for yourself and once for him." "But where is the little boy now, Grandmother?" "He’s a man now, darling. He’s your own father."