“That’s bad,” said the grandmother placidly. “You was never much trouble, Phoebe, I’ll say that for ’ee. Every sickness what come you did take so light as anything. An’ there’s some as ye did never have at all. ’Tis wi’ livin’ so much in the fresh air, I think. I’ll just mix this bit o’ meal an’ take it outside to the little chicken, an’ you mid pop on kettle, my dear, an’ rest yourself a bit. We’ll have tea so soon as I get back.” Mrs Caines unpinned her shawl, threw back her bonnet-strings, and set the kettle on the fire. Then she heaved a sigh, partly of exasperation, partly of fatigue, and looked about her. The room seemed just the same as ever, the furniture a little older and a little shabbier than she remembered it of yore. The grandfather’s clock stood in one corner, with the hands pointing to a quarter to twelve, as they had done ever since she could remember; the warming-pan to the right of the fireplace was not quite as bright as usual, perhaps, and the china on the upper shelf of the dresser was distinctly dusty. “Poor mother, she be gettin’ past her work, I d’ ’low,” said Phoebe to herself; and the reflection strengthened her resolution. Continuing her survey, she presently gave a little start of surprise. The old oak settle which ever since her childhood had stood with its back against the wall, being but a clumsy piece of furniture and never used, was now pushed forward in comfortable proximity to the blaze. What fancy was this? Surely her mother could not choose to sit on that hard uncomfortable seat, instead of in the cosy elbow-chair in which Phoebe herself was now reposing. The fellow to it which had once been her father’s, now, to her astonishment, was relegated to the place usually occupied by the settle. When Mrs Sweetapple returned, her daughter at once questioned her on the subject, openly expressing disapproval, for to people of her turn of mind any change in household arrangements, above all any change carried out unauthorised, must necessarily be condemned. “What in the name o’ goodness ha’ ye gone shiftin’ thik wold settle for?” she exclaimed, in an aggrieved tone. “Sich a great ar’k’ard thing as it be, too heavy for your arms I d’ ’low—an’ there’s poor father’s chair set standin’ again’ the wall!” Mrs Sweetapple blushed all over her wrinkled, kindly old face, and answered confusedly:— “It be jist a fancy o’ mine—jist a notion! Some folks take some notions, an’ some takes others.” “Well, but what be it _for_?” persisted Mrs Caines. “Oh, ’tis jist a fancy I tell ’ee—a fancy o’ my own to make the time pass of an evenin’. There, I do make poor Bartlett an’ your own father take turn about to keep I company, an’ this be Bartlett’s week.” “What in the world d’ye mean?” gasped Phoebe, staring harder than ever, and flushing in her turn.