“You married and were happy with your husband.”
“Yes, bless the Lord!”
“But your daughter, our mother, kissed you good-bye one day to go on a pleasure excursion with her husband, and never came back—oh, it breaks my heart to think of that day—my father and mother lost, both at once!” and, dropping miserably on her knees, Margaretta hid her face in her grandmother’s lap.
The old lady’s lip trembled, but she said, steadily, “The Lord giveth—He also taketh away.”
“And now,” said Margaretta, falteringly, “you are not old, but you have come to an age when you are beginning to think about getting old, and you have lost everything—everything.”
“All save the greatest thing in the world,” said Grandma, patting the bowed head.
“You always had that,” exclaimed Margaretta, lifting her tear-stained face. “Everybody has loved you since you were born—how could any one help it?”
“If everybody loves me, why is it?” inquired Grandma, guilelessly, as she again took up her knitting.
Margaretta wrinkled her fair brows. “I don’t know—I guess it is because you don’t talk much, and you seem to like every one, and you don’t contradict. You’re exceedingly canny, Grandma.”