“A fashionable belle of the first water was Nippie.”
CHAPTER XI.
“CHUSEY.”
WHEN the children stole back again into the hut after October had gone, Grandfather was still asleep. But before long he roused himself suddenly, rubbed his eyes, and stared at them in a strange, bewildered way.
“Where is Carl?” he said. “Has he hidden himself to plague me? I know he loves to tease, but this is too bad.”
“Grandfather,” said Thekla, gently, “you are not quite waked up yet. It was only a dream! There is nobody here but Max and me.”
The old man looked wildly at her for a moment. Then he came to himself, smiled, and stroked her hair. “So,” he said, “only Max and you, Liebchen! Well, it was a nice dream while it lasted; and now I will go to bed.”
“‘We don’t want our Chusey killed—we don’t want him for dinner—we don’t like turkeys when they’re d-e-a-d,’ sobbed the children.”
So Grandfather went to bed. But neither the next day, nor the next, nor the next, did he rise; and soon it became an accepted fact that Grandfather did not care to get up any more. He had no pain, and smiled often; but he seldom spoke, and when he did it was of old times, which seemed to be fresher to his mind than the things which were about him. Thekla moved her wheel indoors, and sat where his eyes could rest upon her the moment he waked; while Max, laying aside all his boyish frisk and bounce, moved about the cottage with steps gentle as a girl’s. And so, quietly and rather sadly, the month wore away.