“She’s not at home,” he said, divining that we wondered where Gran was. “She’s away. But I don’t know where. I never do. Both of you know that already. She has been away--” he rested one hand on his knees, and counted the days on the bricks of the hearth with his walking-stick--“three days. She may be at home in an hour; she may not return in a week. Both of you are familiar with the manner in which she comes and goes.” I had frequently remarked of my grandfather that while others in Fairview said little because they were gloomy, he said little because he had little to say, and after finishing what I have quoted, he stopped as if wondering how he could find language to give his visitors to understand that they were welcome. He seemed to conclude at last that we were anxious to know next about his business (as if there was nothing in the wide world except his wife and the shingle business), and said:-- “You ask how I am getting along with my shingle-making.” We had not mentioned the subject at all, by the way. “I answer, not very well. The trees cut very hard of late, and although I go to my work later, and come home earlier than formerly, I am more tired at night than usual. Shingle-making does not progress very well; I am afraid I am not as young as I was ten or twelve years ago, but we must all wear out. You two are commencing; I am finishing, but I doubt if you think of the future more pleasantly than I do. I am always tired now, and rest to me is as agreeable as hope to you. Look at my hands.” As he held them out, I saw that they were cracked and scarred, and the flesh on them dry and callous. He had been rubbing them with some kind of oil, and the fingers were so cold that it remained on them in lumps without melting. “They hurt me a great deal.” We both expressed a regret that his hands were not better. “But I am well every other way, except that I get tired so easy. If I could get the cracks out of my hands, the shingle business would get on better.” I had noticed before that he apologized for old age and weakness in this way, and tried to convince himself that he was very well, and very strong, except that his hands would crack open, and occasionally he raised them up, and looked at the sores, as though they would finally be the death of him. “She has good success with other people, but poor luck with my hands.” He always spoke of his wife as “she,” as she always referred to him as “he.” “They baffle her skill. I suppose they are in a bad way.” He got up at this, and began walking up and down the floor, rubbing his hands together. Remembering his great feats at walking, I thought if his hands were as sound as his legs, he would still be a stout man. Coming back to his chair presently, he sat down, and said to Jo:--