The noise and confusion were overcoming, and the old man, holding firmly to his remaining crutch, and grasping the back of a chair, grimly surveyed the scene. Finally 'Tilda Jane secured the crutch, and, pantingly brushing back her dishevelled hair, she passed it to him across the dogs' backs.
Poacher had now sunk on the floor at her feet, while Gippie was exerting his feeble strength in trying to crowd him away from 'Tilda Jane's stout shoes.
"Forgive us, grampa, dear grampa," she said, beseechingly; "but it's such a joyful 'casion—such a 'casion. My heart never felt so big in my life. It's all swolled up. Oh, ain't you sweet to prepare this s'prise for me. When I come back jus' now I thought my pet was buried in the cold ground—oh, I jus' love you!" and, climbing over the quarrelling dogs, she seized the bunch of knuckles nearest her, and kissed them fervently.
The old man slowly uncurled his fist and looked at it. How many years was it since any one had kissed him?
He put the crutch under his arm, and turned toward the bedroom.
"Good night, grampa, dear grampa," floated sweetly after him. The girl was down on the floor with her dogs, her arm was around the hound's black neck, the three-legged atrocity was pressed to her side. She was happy, yes, happy—"as happy as a fool," he grumbled to himself. Nothing to annoy her, nothing to trouble her. Wait till she got older, and life's worries began to crowd around her, and with an impatient groan the old man flung himself down on the chair by his bed.
[CHAPTER XXII.]
A TROUBLED MIND.
'Tilda Jane and grampa were sitting out in front of the house. The spring months had passed, the apple-trees had blossomed, and the young apples had formed. With the changing season had come happier days for 'Tilda Jane. Little by little, as the weeks slipped by, a better understanding had arisen between her and "grampa."