And on the Sunday something occurred that confirmed him in his rosy optimism.
His father was having another good day, and they had wheeled him into the front sitting-room. Upstairs in the small back room Ransome was getting the children ready for their Sunday walk, when his mother came to him.
"Ranny," she said, "take off their hats and coats, dear. Your Father wants them."
"What does he want them for?"
"It's his fancy. He's gettin' better, I think. I don't know when I've seen him so bright and contented as he's been these last two days. And so pleased with everything you do for him—There, take them down, dear, quick."
He took them down and led them into the room. But they refused to look at their grandfather; they turned from him at once; they hid their faces behind Ranny's legs.
"They're afraid of me, I suppose," said Mr. Ransome.
"No," said Ranny, "they're not." But he had to take Stanny in his arms and comfort him lest he should cry.
"You're not afraid of Gran, are you? Show Gran your pretty pinny, Doss."
He gave her a gentle push, and the child stood there holding out her pinafore and gazing over it at her grandfather with large, frightened eyes. Mr. Ransome's eyes looked back at her. They were sunken, somber, wistful, unutterably sad. He did not speak. He did not smile. It was impossible to say what he was thinking.