“No, ma’am,” I said. “It’s Friday.” “Then I want you to come to church with me after your dinner,” she said. “Oh, I don’t want to go to church,” I’d said before my grandmother spoke. “’Twill be a queer thing to me as long as I live,” she said, “that those who have don’t want what they have, and that those who haven’t keep wanting.” The telephone-bell rang just then up in the room that my father used for an office, and I raced up to answer it. A man’s voice, younger than that of the man who’d spoken to me, came over the wire. “Say, is this John Sutton’s residence?” it asked. “And is he home? And, if he isn’t, who are you?” “What do you want?” I called. “Information. This is _The World_. We hear that there’s to be a meeting of the clans to-night, and we want to know where it’s to be held.” “I don’t know,” I said. “Can you find out?” “No,” I lied. “There’s nobody home.” “Won’t your father be home for dinner?” Even then I could hear his key turning in the lock, could hear him passing on his way up to his bedroom, but a queer kind of caution was being born in me. “No, sir,” I said. “Who was that?” my grandmother asked me when I went down. I told her of the call, told her, too, of the man who had stopped me on the street. Her rosary slipped through her fingers. “I feared it,” she said. Then the whisper of her praying began again. At dinner my father was strangely silent. Usually he talks a great deal, all about politics, and the newspapers, and the trouble with the schools, and woman suffrage, and war. But he said nothing at all except to ask me if the skating were good. My mother was just as quiet as he, and I would have been afraid to open my mouth if my grandmother hadn’t started in to tell about New York in the days she’d come here, more than sixty-five years ago. She talked and talked about how different everything had been then, with no tall buildings and no big bridges and no subways and no elevateds. “Faith, you can be proud of your native town, John,” she said to my father. “I wish I’d been born in Ireland,” he said. She laughed. “And if I’d stayed in Ireland I’d have starved,” she said, “and little chance you’d have had of being born anywhere.” “It might have been just as well,” he said bitterly. “Oh, no,” she said; “there’s Shauneen.” He rose from the table, flinging down his napkin. “I won’t be home till very late,” he said to my mother. She stood up beside him. “Do you have to go, John?” she asked him. “Yes,” he said. “Oh, John,” she said, “I’m afraid.” “Of what?” “Of what may happen you.” “Nothing’ll happen me,” he said. I wanted to tell him of the strange man who had halted me on the street, and of the telephone call, but my father’s anger was rising and I feared to fan it to flame. My grandmother said nothing until after my father had gone. Then she spoke to my mother.