"I _never_ worry my father--I settle everything for myself. Are you going to get my coffee?" "Can't do dat, missy, widout leab." "Isn't grandma coming to breakfast?" "No; she always habs it in her own room since Miss Valery died." The child pushed back her chair and marched out. The two women called remonstrance after her, but a mighty indignation swept her on. She halted before her grandmother's room, knocked loudly, and opened the door without further waiting. Midway in her valiant advance upon the enemy she stood still. Mrs. Gano was sitting propped with huge feather pillows in an ancient four-poster. She wore a small shrunken cotton nightcap awry on her wonderful thick hair, which tumbled out in a tangle of silver and lay dishevelled over the white flannel jacket that was buttoned crooked over her night-gown, the sleeves hanging loose and armless. In her long taper fingers she held an open letter. Envelopes, notes, the _Baltimore Sun_, and other papers were strewn thick over the silk patchwork quilt. A breakfast tray stood on a table by the bedside. It wasn't her attire, it wasn't even the shrunken, rakish nightcap (self-conscious and uneasy at its obvious shortcomings), that made the old lady's aspect so arresting. She had not said a word at the child's irruption, but she lowered her chin and looked over her heavy gold-rimmed spectacles with a strange cold stare, singularly disconcerting, even slightly paralyzing. But Val's was a bold heart. And she realized that a blow must be struck for liberty. "They haven't given me any coffee for my breakfast," she announced, with equal directness and warmth. The piercing eyes bored into her, but the stern mouth uttered no word. The child began to wish she'd waited till her grandmother were properly dressed and looked more human. "I'm in my eighth year," she went on with dignity, "and I'm accustomed--" "'Good-morning!' is the custom in this house," said the old lady. "Oh! Good-morning!" Slight pause. "The servant says you told her I wasn't to have coffee." "Well?" "I always have it at home." "You're not at home now." "But I can't eat breakfast without--" "There's no need for you to eat breakfast if you're not hungry." "_Why_ can't I have coffee?" "Because I think it injurious"--the keen old eyes caught the swift disdain of the child's glance at the half-empty cup on the tray--"very injurious for children," she added. "My mother didn't think so," Val said, feeling her throat swell. "But I am your grandmother, you see." She had lowered her chin again; her eyes were shooting out over her spectacles, her eyebrows terrifically high. This grandmother of hers could move her eyebrows about as easily as other people moved their arms and legs. It was a fearsome accomplishment.