His father was having another good day, and they had wheeled him into the front sitting-room. Upstairs in the small back room Ransome was getting the children ready for their Sunday walk, when his mother came to him. "Ranny," she said, "take off their hats and coats, dear. Your Father wants them." "What does he want them for?" "It's his fancy. He's gettin' better, I think. I don't know when I've seen him so bright and contented as he's been these last two days. And so pleased with everything you do for him--There, take them down, dear, quick." He took them down and led them into the room. But they refused to look at their grandfather; they turned from him at once; they hid their faces behind Ranny's legs. "They're afraid of me, I suppose," said Mr. Ransome. "No," said Ranny, "they're not." But he had to take Stanny in his arms and comfort him lest he should cry. "You're not afraid of Gran, are you? Show Gran your pretty pinny, Doss." He gave her a gentle push, and the child stood there holding out her pinafore and gazing over it at her grandfather with large, frightened eyes. Mr. Ransome's eyes looked back at her. They were sunken, somber, wistful, unutterably sad. He did not speak. He did not smile. It was impossible to say what he was thinking. This mutual inspection lasted for a moment so intense that it seemed immeasurable. Then Mr. Ransome closed his eyes as if pained and exhausted. And Ranny stooped and whispered, "Kiss him, Dossie, kiss poor Gran." The child, perceiving pity somewhere and awed into submission, did her best, but her kiss barely brushed the sallow, waxen face. And as he felt her there Mr. Ransome opened his eyes suddenly and looked at her again, and Dossie, terrified, turned away and burst out crying. "She's shy. She's a silly little girl," said Ranny, as he led her away. He knew that, in the moment when the child had turned from him, his father had felt outcast from life and utterly alone. Mr. Ransome stirred and looked after him. "You come back here," he said. "I've something to say to you." Ranny took the children to his mother and went back. Mr. Ransome was sitting up in his chair. He had roused himself. He looked strangely intelligent and alert. He signed to his son to sit near him. "How old are those children?" he said. "Dossie was five in March, and Stanny was three in April." "And they've been--how long without their mother?" "It'll be three years next October." "Why don't you get rid of that woman?" said Mr. Ransome. It was as if with effort and with pain and out of the secret, ultimate sources of his being that he drew the energy to say it. They would never know what he was thinking, never know (as Ranny had once said) what was going on inside him. And of all impossible things, _this_ was what he had come out with now! "Do you mean that, Father?" "Of course I mean it." "Well, then--as it happens--it's what I'm going to do." "You should have done it before." "I couldn't." "Why not?"