Jim was a picture. His grandfather said he was. There was no other word. Yet even in the presence of this phenomenal youth there was but a chastened joy. He was sleeping for one thing, calmly, sweetly and superbly; and his pale, fine-drawn, yet strangely proud-looking mother was clad in the livery of widowhood.
Said Josiah in a low voice, so as not to wake the baby, “What’s happened to the picture that used to be there?” He pointed to the wall above the chimneypiece.
“It fell down, Dad.” The voice of Melia was calm.
“When?”
“One night last week—the night before the news came.”
“You don’t say!” Josiah was not superstitious, still it was queer.
“No one was in the room when it happened. No one heard it fall. Didn’t break the frame or the glass or anything. Just the snapping of the cord.”
“War cord, I expect.” Josiah’s voice was grim. “Need a cord of a better quality to hang a certain party. Better have it put up again. Young Nixey tells me that picture may be worth a sight o’ money.”
Melia promised that it should be put up again. He always set such great store by it.
Of a sudden, Sally, who had been wholly absorbed in the contemplation of James, said, “Tell me, Father, when did you last see young Nixey?”