“Oh, stop!” Frances interrupted, rudely. “You don’t understand. It’s something ... I _have_ to see about, something important.” “What can it be?” The old lady was indulgent; she fancied she scented a sentimental interest. “I can’t tell you--just now, anyway.” Frances dried her eyes and looked at her grandmother with a new look, hard and clear. “You’ll have to make out alone for a few hours,” she said, “I’ve got to go in on that four-eight train. I’ll be back some time to-night.” She went into her room and, closing the door, flung herself down on the creaking bed, not to cry, but to think, to plan for him. All morning the breakfast dishes were unwashed, the beds unmade, nothing touched in the house. It was noon when a curious sound startled Frankie. She fancied she heard a step in the passage. She flung open the door, to see a poor, trembling little figure come out of her grandmother’s room. “Grandma!” she shrieked, and flew to catch her and half carry her back to her bed, reproaching her bitterly, tenderly, while she got her clothes off. She noticed with intolerable remorse how clumsily the things were put on and the scanty hair twisted up. “Grandma,” she cried. “You know you shouldn’t! Suppose you had slipped! It was dreadful of you!” She saw to her horror that there were tears in the poor thing’s eyes and her feeble voice quavered. “Frances,” she said, “I couldn’t stand it. Both of you going off ... neither of you wanting to stay with me.... I felt I didn’t care what happened to me.... And----” she broke into a weak little sob as she came to her last and worst grief, “one o’clock and the house not touched! I just couldn’t lie abed any longer!” “No, Granny dear, I know! I’ll do everything right away. Only lie down and rest, won’t you? I’ll do everything before I go.” The old lady patted her hand. “Won’t you ask Sally Washington to sit in the kitchen while you’re gone?” she asked. “I’m so nervous about fire.” Frankie hurried across to the cottage, but Sally couldn’t come; she was sick in bed and there was no one available but young Norman Washington, aged nine, who was guaranteed by his mother to be trustworthy. The old lady, however, rejected him. “Worse than no one!” she cried. “A boy! He’ll eat up all my preserves. And goodness knows _what_ he’ll break.” It also occurred to her that he was quite likely, in his quality as boy, to set fire to the house; in fact, as she considered it longer, she declared it _certain_ that he would do so.