“That is why she is so toploftical,” said Margaretta. “However, it is well that she was named for great-aunt Alberta—but, Grandma, dear, don’t knit.”
“Why not?”
“It is so prosaic, after all you have gone through,” said Margaretta. “When I think of your trials, it makes me sick.”
“My trials are nothing to what Job had,” remarked her grandmother. “I read of his tribulations and they make mine seem very insignificant.”
“Poor Grandma, you have had about as many as Job.”
“What have I had?” asked the old lady, softly.
Margaretta made a gesture of despair. “Your mother died at your birth.”
“The Lord took her,” said the old lady, gently, “and when I needed a mother he sent me a good stepmother.”
“Your father perished in a burning hotel,” said the girl, in a low voice.
“And went to heaven in a chariot of fire,” replied Grandma, firmly.