The doctor touched up his horse, and Therese went on her way. She found her grandmother sitting up as usual by the window, her dress in the best order, her knitting in her hands, and her great French Bible, an heirloom of many generations, open on the table at her elbow. Everything in the room was in its customary order, and shining with neatness, from the well-polished stove to the tortoise-shell cat and her two white kittens; but Therese was startled with the change in the old lady herself.
"Have you been ill, grand-mère?" asked Therese.
"No, my child, not ill. I have not been well for some days past; I have had a shock, and it is not in nature that an old woman like me should not feel it. I am eighty years old this month."
"I did not think you were as old as that."
"Yes, your poor mother was my youngest child, the last survivor of six hopeful children who all died in childhood; and but for thee, Therese, I could find it in my heart to regret that she had not slept with them."
This was the first time grand-mère had mentioned her mother to Therese.
"But thou art a good child, Therese, and I am glad thou hast such kind friends; thou canst say,—
"'When my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will take me up.'
"Tell me about thy prospects."
Therese repeated what we have heard of Mrs. Tremaine's plans, concluding with—"And when I come back, grand-mère, I shall be able to have a school of my own like Miss Oliver's, and make a home for thee, and perhaps for poor mamma also, if she should return."