They stepped out onto the snowy ground, and Merrimeg turned round to say good-bye. The old coachman touched his cap with his whip. The ponies arched their necks and bowed and pawed the ground. There was nothing left of the coach’s body except the seats. Myrma took the old lady’s hand, and pointed towards a lighted window which glowed in the darkness. “Yes, I know,” said Merrimeg. They stood before an old, old house, with a knocker on the door. Over the knocker was the number “80.” “Come in,” said Myrma, and she opened the door. Inside was a warm and cosy room. Candles were glimmering on a polished table, and a fire was sparkling on the open hearth. A grandfather’s clock was going tick-tock in the corner. Merrimeg gave a sigh of contentment. She sat down in an easy chair before the fire, and sat there nodding her head at it and smiling to herself. Her cane was resting against her knee. Her old hands were folded in her lap. “Bring them in,” she said, and Myrma went out through a rear door. In a moment there were children’s voices in the room, crying “Grandmother!” and half a dozen boys and girls, big and little, were sitting round her on the floor, looking up at her fondly. She laid her hand on the head of the littlest, and smoothed his curls. But she kept nodding at the fire all the while, as if her thoughts were far off. “Mother,” said some grown-up voices, and two young men and a young woman stood beside her, leaning down to her fondly. Still she kept smiling at the fire, as if she were thinking of something else. “It’s time for Peter to come,” she said in a low voice, as if to herself. “He ought to be with me now.” The grownups looked at each other and shook their heads. “I remember,” she said, “how he used to tease me in school. Once he dipped my hair in the green ink. Well, well. I used to get very angry with him. But I think I was only pretending.” Her head sank down a little on her breast. “He had such nice laughing eyes when he was a boy. I suppose that’s what made me love him first.” She folded her hands again in her lap, and her head sank lower on her breast. “There’s no need to worry about the baby, Peter. I’ll sit up with him to-night. You must go to bed now. You won’t be fit for anything to-morrow if you don’t.” Her voice was not more than a whisper now. “No, I’m not sorry about anything. Everything’s been all right. I’ve had you, and that’s enough. No, you mustn’t say that. Trouble? Yes, but love makes even that beautiful too.” She raised her head and gazed into the fire, and then closed her eyes. “He’ll be here in time. He won’t leave me at the end of the road alone. I’m there now, Peter. Yes. I do see you. It’s all right now.” Her head began to droop down, little by little, onto her breast; and as it was sinking, sinking, a new voice sounded in the room, and it said: “I believe it is, brother, I believe it is.” “You’re always right, brother,” said another voice.