“Yes, such a good piece of work,” he ran on. Then he chuckled, well pleased. “You must know, Phronsie,” for he was determined to tell it in a way to suit himself, “that I was sitting on the back veranda--Polly’s gone to town to-day, you know.” “Yes, Grandpapa.” “Well, and the house was quiet, thanks to you and the little brown house, and I had a chance to read the morning paper in peace.” This he said, unconscious of the fact that every one knew quite well he courted the presence of the children on any and every occasion. “Well, I had considerable to read; the news, strange to say, is very good, really very good to-day, so it took me quite a long time.” He forgot to mention that he had lost himself a half-hour or so in a nap; these occurrences were never to be commented on in the family. “And I was turning the paper--it’s abominable that editors mix things up so; it’s eternally turning and returning the sheet, to find what you want. It’s very hard, Phronsie, when we pay such prices for articles, that we cannot have them to suit us, child.” “Yes, Grandpapa,” said Phronsie patiently. “Well, don’t look at those youngsters, Phronsie; they’re all right now. They won’t fight any more to-day.” “O Grandpapa!” “I mean it, child. Well, I was turning that contemptible paper for about the fiftieth time,--I wanted to read Brinkerhoff’s editorial,--when I caught sight of a figure making around the lawn to the front veranda. Thinks I, ‘that looks wonderfully like Roslyn May.’” The pink glow in Phronsie’s round cheek went suddenly out. “And so it was, as sure as you’re here on my knee.” He had her hand in both of his, and was affectionately pressing it. “Yes, Phronsie, there was that fellow. So I jumped up, and told Johnson to send him around to me; and he came.” Old Mr. King drew a long breath of pleased reminiscence. Phronsie sat quite still, the afternoon sunlight that streamed through the western window glinting her yellow hair. Her hands lay in Grandpapa’s, and her eyes never wavered from his face. But she said nothing. “You don’t ask me anything, Phronsie,” said the old gentleman at last. “Hey, child?” pinching her ear. “No, Grandpapa, because you will tell me yourself.” “And so I will; you are a good girl not to badger me with questions. Well, he came about the same thing, Phronsie,--wanted to see you, and all that. But I couldn’t allow it, of course; for, if I did, the next thing, you would be worried to death by his teasing. And that’s all out of the question. Besides being decidedly unpleasant for you, it would kill me.” “Would it, Grandpapa?” Phronsie leaned forward suddenly, and held him with her brown eyes. “Not a shadow of doubt,” he answered promptly; “I shouldn’t live a month if you went off and got married, Phronsie.”