"Oh, Grandmother," Elizabeth said, trembling, "will you hold my hand while I read these letters? I—I am so worried about Buddy."
"Certain." Grandmother drew out the little footstool that matched the particular valanced rocker she was sitting in. "You come here."
Elizabeth leaned her head against her grandmother's knee, with the feeling of faintness still upon her. Her grandmother stroked her hair gently.
"I can't read them out loud, Grandma. They are private in a way. It's—it's the private things in them that frighten me."
"There ain't nothing in this world to be afraid of. There ain't," said Grandmother. "Fear once killed a cat, you know."
"Don't you ever get afraid, Grandma?"
"Certain I get afraid, but when I do, I just think that there ain't nothing in this world to be afraid of so much as of being afraid, and that kind of stops me."
"I can't help being afraid of what's in this particular letter."
