Mrs. Travers, still steadily knitting, glanced at her as if to say, “Why this sudden access of affection?”
“It doesn’t mean anything in particular,” said Berty, pressing still closer, “only that you are so dear.”
Grandma smiled, and went on with her work.
“You are just toeing that stocking off,” said Berty.
“Yes, dear,” replied her grandmother. “This is the last of the six pairs for Mrs. Darley-James. You will remember, Berty, they are all for her.”
“Why should I remember?” asked the girl, anxiously. “You always remember for yourself.”
“True,” said Mrs. Travers, composedly, and, getting up, she went to her writing-desk. Taking out a roll of exquisitely made stockings, she wrapped them in a piece of paper, and with a firm hand wrote, “Mrs. Darley-James, from her old friend, Margaret Travers.”
Having directed the parcel, she left her desk and went to the veranda.
Berty followed her. Grandma was looking strangely up and down the river—strangely and restlessly. At last she said, “It’s a glorious afternoon. I should like to go out in a boat.”
“But, Grandma,” said Berty, uneasily, “do you feel able for it?”