“Thou must not blame me, Mother Amy. Thou shouldst blame thy own self, who hast made her the lovely woman that she is. I could not help but love her; and thou—thou must have left thy mother’s side also.”
“Does thee think I will fight against nature, Fritz? I blame nobody; but when thee and she think to rob me of my little ones, then I will not let thee have thy will.”
Fritz second began to be very much interested, indeed. He forgot all about the “raisiny-pain,” and pictured pages were as dross. He knew they were talking about “the children,” and that included himself.
“But the care, think of the care. Even for the six months that we shall be away it will be too much for thy feeble strength.”
“Humph!” said grandmother, and she said it exactly like Aunt Ruth. “I am only seventy-seven years of age. I have excellent health, and my parents lived to be over ninety.”
“If thou wouldst only go with us!” pleaded Fritzy Nunky, eloquently.
Grandmother shook her head vigorously. “In this house I have lived ever since my husband left me. In this house I will remain till my own summons comes. Having nobody else to cosset, Ruth has cosseted me, and pretended to her loving heart that I required it. I do not. I am fully capable of caring for all those whom the Lord sends to my keeping. I have thought it all out. There shall come a governess here, and the children shall be regularly taught all that it is necessary they should know. Melville will be with his great professor in a very few weeks, so friend Winslow tells me. The rest of us will abide in our place and be at peace. Go, thee and Ruth, and be as happy as were my companion and I. I could wish thee nothing more; but take this step only in the fear of the Lord.”
Fritzy got up and walked softly to his grandmother’s chair.
By that time Fritzy Nunky was pacing up the long apartment and down again, in a very disturbed sort of fashion. No wonder, Fritz the second thought, if, as grandmother said, he was really taking away from her the light of her eyes! The child felt a sudden revulsion of feeling toward his beloved guardian of which he might not have been thought capable. He cast a scowling glance upon the burly, striding figure, and wished that he could fight it. Then he leaned his sticky hands on Mother Amy’s knees and peered curiously up into her tear-dimmed eyes.
“What is it, little lad?” asked the old lady gently, and bending down to kiss her darlings’ face.