father, had died. What tremors, what pains, what ecstasies, what perversities and dreams the bed had known! Here Grandmother now spent the greater part of her time.
Her hand rose and hung above the quilt. A tiny red beam shone from the ruby ring she always wore. She was feeling for her stick. Before she was able to grasp it and rap again, Wakefield trotted to her side. He said, like a little parrot: "There is nothing wrong, Grandmama. Please compose yourself."
He enjoyed the dignified words Aunt Augusta had put into his mouth. He should have liked to say them over again. Indeed he did repeat: "Please compose yourself."
She peered up at him from under her shaggy red brows. Her nightcap had got askew and one eye was completely hidden by it, but the other fixed him with peculiar intensity.
"Hey?" she demanded. "What's that?"
"Compose yourself," he reiterated, earnestly, and patted the quilt.
"I'll compose this family," she said, savagely, "with my stick! Where's my stick?"
He put it into her hand and then backed away a little.
She thought a moment, trying to recall what she had wanted, then a burst of half-smothered laughter from the dining-room reminded her.
"What's that noise mean? What are they shouting about?"
"About a canary, Gran. Finch has a lottery ticket for one." He came close to her now, looking eagerly into her face to watch the effect of his words.
The effect was terrible. Her features were contorted by rage. She glared up at him, speechless, for a moment, then articulated thickly, "A canary—a bird—another bird in the house! I won't have it! It'll put Boney in a rage. He won't bear it—he'll tear it to pieces!"
Boney, disturbed by the sound of his name, took his
