And on old Hyem’s thin and icy crown—
Read him! Read him! There’s a man! And died at fifty—thirty years too young to know old Hyem’s ways. But he knew!” He chuckled. “I’d like to have met him,” said Gran’papa condescendingly.
He stared across at his granddaughter, lost in her own thoughts. His expression changed. He leaned forward, touching her hot, locked hands with his cold, papery fingers.
“These things pass,” said Gran’papa.
He shivered again and glanced over his shoulder.
“Very cold. The window——”
Laura roused herself.
“It’s shut, Gran’papa. But I’ll make up the fire.” She bent blindly over the dim hearth.
But Gran’papa, with a fretful sigh, got up shakily out of his chair. He was sure the window was open. Then he remembered his birds, clustering on the roof of the drawing-room below, and that he had not fed them. His fingers rattled on the pane as he threw up the sash. Very cold.... The wind slid in like a snake, striking at Gran’papa, but though he shivered he threw out the crumbs and stood watching the instant, twittering turmoil, with a glance now and then at the empty cage, that swung, grazing his skull-cap, overhead. He missed his bird.... Its notes ... particularly fine ... a strain of bullfinch ... inclined to be shrill, of course ... but a wonderful ear ... indeed he had had to cover the cage when he played on his fiddle for any length of time.... It had been—Gran’papa smiled—jealous, positively jealous, of his fiddle.... He thought he might get out his fiddle. He must not let his fingers get stiff....
What was that?...