When Philippe entered, he had to blink his eyes for some time before he could adjust himself to the darkness. Then he handed his Grandmother the bouquet he had carried so carefully, politely wishing her health and happiness. There were tears in Grandmother’s eyes as she bent over and kissed her Grandson’s pink and shining cheek, but then there were always tears in Grandmother’s eyes—why, Philippe never could understand. Did she weep because of the stinging smoke that the chimney seemed too small to carry off? Or because she was sad? Not sad, thought Philippe, or Grandmother would not be all the time smiling. “Hey-O!” sang Grandmother in her high little voice, dropping a tear in the yellow heart of a purple pansy. “What pretty flowers you have brought me, my Philippe, and see, here is a raindrop in one of them shining as prettily as a glass bead!” Philippe did not like to tell her that it was her own tear. “Then it is raining out?” she asked. “It will make a wet home-coming for your uncle, but it is lovely, nevertheless, and if it comes down hard enough, it will make the river flow along more happily than it has for a long day. Won’t that be beautiful, Philippe?” “Yes, Grandmother Marianne,” Philippe agreed politely, and then asked: “When will my Uncle Pablôt be here? Mother has taught me what to say when I make my bow to him, and if he is too long in coming, I am afraid that I may forget it.” “He will come,” said Grandmother, “when he has a mind to.” “And is he coming from a great distance, maybe all the way from Paris?” (Philippe thought that Paris was the only city in the world, built on the world’s very edge.) “Maybe, and then maybe not,” Grandmother told him. “There is no telling where your uncle will come from; he is apt to blow in from any quarter.” “Ah, then that explains it!” remarked Philippe innocently. “Father said he always thought Uncle Pablôt was a little inclined to blow.” “Now did he!” Grandmother was frowning and smiling at one and the same time. “Have you spoken to your Grandfather yet?” “I did not know that Grandfather Joseph was home; I did not see him,” said Philippe truthfully. “Use your young eyes sharply and look into every corner,” advised Grandmother. “Anjou!” she cried warningly, “you will burn your nose if you get too close to that roasting duck.” Philippe gazed into the farthest corner of the room where he saw two dim spots of white glowing like snow in the night; he had to advance quite near before he could be sure that what he saw was the long white hair and the long white beard of Grandfather. “Good day, Grandfather Joseph,” said Philippe, bowing low before the old man who sat huddled in a chair, the arms of which were worn shiny by the grip of thin fingers. “‘Good day’? A very _bad_ day, Grandson. Though I no longer hear nor see as I used to, I can feel that it is raining. Tell me, is it raining?”