Grandma was on the veranda, knitting, knitting, always knitting.
“What a bird’s perch this is,” said some one suddenly, behind her.
She turned round. Grandson Roger was trying to squeeze his tall frame between the equally tall frame of an old-fashioned rocking-chair and the veranda railing.
“How you must miss your big veranda on Grand Avenue,” he said, coming to sit beside her.
“I don’t,” said Grandma, tranquilly. “It’s wonderful how one gets used to things. Berty and I used to enjoy our roomy veranda, but we have adapted ourselves to this one, and never feel like complaining.”
“It’s a wonderful thing—that power of adaptation,” said the young man, soberly, “and I have a theory that the primitive in us likes to return to small quarters and simplicity. For instance, I am never so happy as when I leave my large house and go to live in my hunting-camp.”
Grandma smiled, and took up her knitting again.
Roger, who had comfortably settled himself in the corner beside her, frowned slightly. “Grandma, the girls tell me that you are selling these stockings you knit.”
“Yes, why not?” she asked, quietly.
“But there is no need of it.”