"You're just tired and depressed," I said, at last, trying to lie, even to myself. "It will soon pass off, and then . . ." "No, George! . . . It will get gradually worse--until I'm old again, and . . . back where I started. . . ." "But . . . Gran'pa?" I stammered. "_He's_ still young!" "He's an exception," she answered, with astonishing calmness. "I felt it all along. That is why I hesitated so at the very first. It's not the glands which have made such a difference to him, but his faith--the sort of wonderful faith that moves mountains, George. He's been like that all his life--an American, through and through. Everything he put his hand to--and believed in--he accomplished. I'm sure that anything is possible if only one has real faith. . . ." "I haven't got it!" she added, wistfully. "I've always been shrinking back from things--afraid of anything new. Perhaps that is why I never married. . . . When your grandfather came, after all those years, still full of fire . . . I was carried away. I tried, oh, so hard, to believe in him, and in myself. But I've found that it is too late to alter my disposition. I haven't the faith. I'm still shrinking--doubtful--timid. . . ." It was a pitiful confession. Outside, the evening was drawing in, and gray, shroud-like shadows stole into the room. I did not like leaving her. "Come back to Richmond with me," I suggested. "Molly will soon pull you round. You're brooding here." "No!" she said. "I'm not unhappy. It's just the . . . sudden change. In a short time I shall be my old self again. Don't think me ungrateful, George, but the last twelve months have not been _natural_. I don't seem to have had a moment's rest. All the bustle and hurry have unnerved me. I feel more contented, now that it is over and done with. . . ." She must have seen that I doubted her last statement, for she placed a hand on my arm and said: "Young people can never understand that it's no hardship to be old--if one is still well. It all happens so gradually. Nature is kind. It is only her children who make life so difficult!" Her philosophy astounded me. It even converted me. I felt that Sally's view was right, and Gran'pa's wrong. The one was art; the other vandalism. Why had we tried to patch up and renovate Nature's old masterpieces? Not because we sought artistic improvement but merely because we were eager to show our own cleverness. Gran'pa's whole attitude was: "Look what I've done!" Unfortunately, I, too, had adopted the pose, and Sally's youthfulness had temporarily captivated me solely because it was the living proof of a marvellous achievement (by us). Sally rejuvenated was impossible, absurd. But Sally as a gracious, white-haired old lady was lovable--a work of art, hallowed and moulded and softened by the hand of Time. To tamper with such a masterpiece was sacrilegious, profane.