"You mustn't grieve, child," Mrs. Brown said, with unusual gentleness; "by your own telling you know that she's better off where she's gone. I daresay she had a troublous life."
Billy nodded. "But we were very happy," he said, "just mother and me. Of course we were poor, but Grandfer helped us. He used to write such nice letters—short, but ever so kind. We used to look forward to getting his letters, not so much because of the money—"
"What money?" interposed Mrs. Brown with a start.
"The money he used to send us," the little boy explained. "Oh, didn't you know about it?"
Mrs. Brown hesitated, but only momentarily. Her face was flushed and her brows were knitted in a frown.
"No," she replied, "I did not. Perhaps your grandfather thought it no business of mine." She rose as she spoke and took her candle. "Well, I suppose I can leave you now," she remarked; "you're not likely to have a shrieking fit again."
"Oh, no, Granny! And thank you for coming to me. I—"
Billy ceased speaking abruptly, for Mrs. Brown had gone, closing the door behind her. He did not feel at all sleepy, but he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He wished he had not spoken of the money his grandfather had given his mother. He supposed, now, that Grandfer had not wished Granny to know about it—that that was the reason why he had always been so anxious not to be thanked. Then would Granny have been against the money having been sent?
"That must be it!" Billy decided. "Oh, how mean of her! Yes, I do call it mean! She is mean."
Though he had been so short a time at Rowley Cottage, he had discovered that Mrs. Brown had but one aim and ambition in life—to make and save money. Only the day before she had shown temper because her husband had become a subscriber to some war charity.