"Dear me!" said the grandfather, and walked on a few steps.
Then he paused again. "So Tom is dead."
"Oh, you knew that long ago. I told you so."
"So you did," said the old gentleman. He took off his skullcap, and passed his hand over his soft white hair. "Which Tom is that—my son Tom or his son Tom?"
"Both Toms," said Edith. "They're both dead. One died four days ago, and the other died six years ago, and you oughtn't to mix them up like that. One was my papa and your son, and the other was his son and the baby's papa. Now don't forget that again."
"No, my dear," said the grandfather. Then, after a while: "And you say his name is Wilson?"
"Whose name?" exclaimed Edith.
"Why, my dear, how should I know?" said the grandfather.
Then Edith laughed, and the old gentleman laughed with her.
"Never mind," said Edith. "Come in and see the baby—your son Tom's son's baby."