Granny and Billy had been curiously quiet in the other room. Suddenly Billy Potter stepped to the door. “I’ve just thought of a great game, children,” he said. “But we’ve got to play it in the kitchen. Bring some crayons, Maida.” The children raced after him. “What is it?” they asked in chorus. Billy did not answer. He lifted Granny’s easy-chair with Granny, knitting and all, and placed it in front of the kitchen stove. Then he began to draw a huge rectangle on the clean, stone floor. “Guess,” he said. “Sure and Oi know what ut’s going to be,” smiled Granny. Maida and Rosie watched him closely. Suddenly they both shouted together: “Hopscotch! Hopscotch!” “Right you are!” Billy approved. He searched among the coals in the hod until he found a hard piece of slate. “All ready now!” he said briskly. “Your turn, first, Rosie, because you’re company.” Rosie failed on “fivesy.” Maida’s turn came next and she failed on “threesy.” Billy followed Maida but he hopped on the line on “twosy.” “Oi belave Oi cud play that game, ould as Oi am,” Granny said suddenly. “I bet you could,” Billy said. “Sure, ’twas a foine player Oi was when Oi was a little colleen.” “Come on, Granny,” Billy said. The two little girls jumped up and down, clapping their hands and shrieking, “Granny’s going to play!” “Granny’s going to play!” They made so much noise finally, that Billy had to threaten to stand them on their heads in a corner. Granny took her turn after Billy. She hopped about like a very active and a very benevolent old fairy. “Oh, doesn’t she look like the Dame in fairy tales?” Maida said. They played for a half an hour. And who do you suppose won? Not Maida with all her new-found strength, not Rosie with all her nervous energy, not Billy with all his athletic training. “Mrs. Delia Flynn, champion of America and Ireland,” Billy greeted the victor. “Granny, we’ll have to enter you in the next Olympic games.” They returned after this breathless work to the living-room. “Now I’m going to tell you a story,” Billy announced. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” Maida squealed. “Do! Billy tells the most wonderful stories, Rosie—stories he’s heard and stories he’s read. But the most wonderful ones are those that he makes up as he goes along.” The two little girls settled themselves on the hearth-rug at Billy’s feet. Granny sat, not far off, working with double speed at her neglected knitting.