“I’ve been crying over my faded beauty—because I’ve had a plain day.”
“Oh, I wish you wouldn’t try to turn the matter to a jest,” I pleaded. “I can’t bear to think of you crying. I can’t bear to think of you unhappy. What is it? I wish you’d tell me.”
“Do you really wish it?” she asked, with a sudden approach to gravity.
“Yes—yes,” I answered eagerly. “If you’re unhappy, I want to know it, I want to share it with you. You’re so good, you’re so dear, I wish I could take every pain in the world away from you, I wish I could protect you from every breath of pain.”
Her eyes softened beautifully, they shone into mine with a beautiful gentleness. “You’re a dear boy,” she said. “You’re a great comfort to your grandmother.”
“Well, then,” I urged, “the least you can do is to tell me what has happened to make my grandmother unhappy.”
“Nothing has happened. I’ve been thinking. That’s all.”
“Thinking what? What have you been thinking?”
“Thinking——————-” she began, as if she was about to answer; but then she made a teasing little face at me, and declaimed—
“Oh, thinking, if you like,