When Ellen peeped in through her grandmother's door, however, she saw the old lady sitting over in her rocking-chair near the window, knitting.
"May I come in?" she asked.
"Yes, yes, come in, little Clara. I was just wondering where you and all the other children were."
The child drew up a little stool and sat down by her grandmother's knee. "Granny," she said, trying to speak quietly, "I think I know what happened to little Goldenhair now. Shall I tell you the story?"
"Yes, do, my dear."
So Ellen told her grandmother the story of Goldenhair.
The grandmother listened, smiling and nodding her head. After a while she grew so interested that she pushed her glasses up on top of her cap.
"Yes, yes, that is it. I didn't know anybody remembered that story any more, but that is the way I heard it when I was a child."
"Then it's true," cried the child triumphantly; "and I really did find the Queerbodies' house, and see them making stories."