"He's wearied, and you don't help him, my dear." "What could I do, Grandmother?" "Many little things, if you tried," said the old lady. "He spent half-an-hour to-day while you were on the moor, getting turf for the fire, and you could have got it just as well, and he been at his work." "He never told me," said Tommy. "You might help me a bit just now, if you would, my laddie," said the old lady coaxingly; "these bits of cloth want tearing into lengths, and if you get 'em ready, I can go on knitting. There'll be some food when this mat is done and sold." "I'll try," said Tommy, lounging up with desperate resignation. "Hold my knife, Johnnie. Father's been cross, and everything has been miserable, ever since the farm was sold. I wish I were a big man, and could make a fortune.--Will that do, Granny?" The old lady put down her knitting and looked. "My dear, that's too short. Bless me! I gave the lad a piece to measure by." "I thought it was the same length. Oh, dear! I am so tired;" and he propped himself against the old lady's chair. "My dear! don't lean so! you'll tipple me over!" she shrieked. "I beg your pardon, Grandmother. Will _that_ do?" "It's that much too long." "Tear that bit off. Now it's all right." "But, my dear, that wastes it. Now that bit is of no use. There goes my knitting, you awkward lad!" "Johnnie, pick it up!--Oh! Grandmother, I _am_ so hungry." The boy's eyes filled with tears, and the old lady was melted in an instant. "What can I do for you, my poor bairns?" said she. "There, never mind the scraps, Tommy." "Tell us a tale, Granny. If you told us a new one, I shouldn't keep thinking of that bread in the cupboard.--Come Johnny, and sit against me. Now then!" "I doubt if there's one of my old-world cracks I haven't told you," said the old lady, "unless it's a queer ghost story was told me years ago of that house in the hollow with the blocked-up windows." "Oh! not ghosts!" Tommy broke in; "we've had so many. I know it was a rattling, or a scratching, or a knocking, or a figure in white; and if it turns out a tombstone or a white petticoat, I hate it." "It was nothing of the sort as a tombstone," said the old lady with dignity. "It's a good half-mile from the churchyard. And as to white petticoats, there wasn't a female in the house; he wouldn't have one; and his victuals came in by the pantry window. But never mind! Though it's as true as a sermon." Johnnie lifted his head from his brother's knee. "Let Granny tell what she likes, Tommy. It's a new ghost, and I should like to know who he was, and why his victuals came in by the window." "I don't like a story about victuals," sulked Tommy. "It makes me think of the bread. O Granny dear! do tell us a fairy story. You never will tell us about the Fairies, and I know you know." "Hush! hush!" said the old lady. "There's Miss Surbiton's Love Letter, and her Dreadful End."