She took my hand, and looked at his empty chair by the fireside. It seemed as if some dread shadow had fallen on us. I realized how much poor old Gran'pa had become part of the house, the furniture, and even of ourselves—how keenly we should miss him during his absence in the nursing home.
The thought of the one-in-a-hundred chance of his dying was intolerable. I refused to dwell on it. Neither would I let Molly.
"You'll have great times when he does return," I said.
"I know! He's been telling me simply heaps of things he's going to do."
She grew more cheerful at the thought of this—but still kept a watchful eye on the clock.
"Time's up!" she exclaimed at last.
A moment or two later I could hear creaking movements upstairs and the faint rumble of Gran'pa's voice as he began telling her a story.
I listened for several minutes; and then silence descended—and so did Molly.
"He's gone to sleep," she half-whispered. "He often does that when he's story-telling."
"Just as well, my child. . . . Now for dinner!"