Susan thought this the funniest name she had ever heard.
As she and Grandfather, hand in hand, would carefully pick their way over the stones that covered the road from house to highway, she never tired of asking, “Grandfather, why do you call it Featherbed Lane? It’s not a bit like a feather bed. It’s as hard as hard can be.”
“Because there are just as many stones in this lane as there are feathers in a feather bed,” Grandfather would answer gravely. “Some day you must count them and see.”
“But how many feathers are there in a feather bed?” Susan would ask. “You must count them, too,” was Grandfather’s reply.
At the end of the lane, on the roadside, stood a little house with three windows, a front door, and a pointed roof with a chimney. This was Grandfather’s law office, and here he was to be found at work every day, coming up to the house only at meal-time. Inside there was one big room, not only lined all round with books, but with books overflowing their shelves and piled upon the chairs and tumbled upon the floor. Grandfather’s big desk was drawn up close to the windows, and as Susan passed in and out of the gate she never failed to smile and wave her hand in greeting.
If Grandfather were not busy, he would invite her in, and then Susan on the floor would build houses of the heavy law books, using Grandfather’s shabby old hassock for table or bed as the case might be.
One cool May afternoon Susan climbed upon Grandfather’s lap as he sat in front of the coal fire that burned in the office grate every day that gave the least excuse for it.
Grandmother had gone calling in the village, and Susan was staying with Grandfather until her return. Susan cuddled her head down on Grandfather’s broad shoulder.
“Say ‘William Ti Trimity’ for me, please,” said she coaxingly.
So Grandfather obediently repeated,