“Well, not quite that, grandma,” he added, in his scrupulously truthful way. “But I was trying to see if I hadn’t got up above the mark sister Anna made for me in the corner.” “And you couldn’t stretch yourself to satisfy you? It’ll come soon enough, my boy—soon enough.” “I think it’s very slow work, grandma; and the birthdays are so far apart. What a great while a year is, grandma, aint it? It don’t seem as if it ought to take many of them to make eternity.” The smile was quite gone from her face now. She had forgotten the work that must be done; her face was uplifted, and the shadowy eyes looked eagerly out, as if the tired soul were trying to pierce the mists that lay between it and its haven of rest. The boy looked at her wonderingly; then her silence, and her strange, far-off look filled him with a vague trouble. He slid his little hand into hers and pulled her toward him, exclaiming, “Grandma! grandma!” “Yes, dear,” she answered, dreamily. “Oh! don’t look as if you were going away!” Truly, his innocent words, whose import he himself so dimly comprehended, was the most perfect translation of that look which words could have found. “What were you thinking about, grandma?” “Thinking? Ever so many things—so many!” “Don’t the years seem a great way apart to you, grandma?” “So short; and such ages and ages to look back on,” she answered; but replying more to her own thoughts than seeking to make her words plain to his childish understanding. “Why, you don’t have birthdays any oftener than I, do you?” he asked, somewhat jealously; perhaps afraid he was being defrauded of his rightful dues in regard to the number and frequency of those blessings that grow such very doubtful ones as the years get on. “It’s only that they seem to come closer and closer, Joey,” she answered, brushing his hair back from his handsome face. “When anybody gets old, little boy, the years grow very short in passing, and so long to look back on.” “I guess I don’t quite understand it yet, grandma,” he said, with a somewhat puzzled look. “Time enough, little Joseph. Don’t you try to hurry things; you’ll understand soon enough.” “Will I?” and he gave a sigh of relief—the promise and the anticipation were almost as consoling as any reality—the anticipations of childhood are so golden in the light of the future. Joseph nestled close to her feet on the little stool, and, resting his thoughts on the promise she had made, brought himself back to safer themes, both as regarded his mental capacities and the old lady’s peace. “This is just the morning for a good long talk, ain’t it, grandma?” he said, in his quaint, old-fashioned way, that was so pretty and original. “Almost any morning seems just the one for you and me,” she answered, pleasantly, taking up her work again, and proceeding to make amends for lost time with great energy.