But there was something strange about those thoughts. They were as contrary as Susan herself. For all she could remember were the times when Grandmother and Grandfather had been kind and patient and good, and little by little quite a different feeling came over her.
“Grandfather always takes me driving with him when he can,” thought she. “And Grandmother made the new dress for Flip; and she brought me a paint-box yesterday from Green Valley.”
And suddenly Susan began to cry again.
“But this time it is sorry tears. The other time it was mad ones,” thought she to herself, for Susan was quite as sharp as are most little girls to know when she was in the right or in the wrong.
Downstairs she flew, and flung her arms about Grandmother.
“Oh, oh, oh,” moaned Susan, burying her face in Grandmother’s neck. “Oh, Grandmother, Grandmother.” And if she had stood upon the church steps and shouted, “I’m sorry,” to the whole village, she couldn’t have said it more plainly.
Grandmother understood her quite well, and all she said was:
“I couldn’t believe that my Susan would be so rude to me.”
“I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it,” whispered Susan, and, sealing the peace with a kiss, she went in search of Grandfather.
He sat on the porch, reading his paper, and he must have heard all that she said, for he opened his arms, and without a word she snuggled down upon his lap. With both hands she pulled his face round to hers and placed a kiss upon what she called “my very own spot,” none other than the tip of Grandfather’s nose.