Then the clock on the mantel struck twelve, the machine stopped, and the worker got stiffly to her feet. She was a tall, strong person, with a sad, preoccupied face. It was difficult to believe that she was the daughter of the little blue-eyed old man. At once he, too, rose and laid his book on the table. He looked up at the tall figure as though he were a little afraid of it.
“Susan,” said he, “are you tired?”
“Yes,” answered Susan.
“Susan,” the old man began with a little gasp, “I wish you’d—” He looked longingly toward the door which led out toward the little shop.
“You wish I’d what, gran’pap?”
The old man’s courage failed completely.
“I wish you’d go to bed, Susan.”
“I am going,” answered Susan. “Good night, gran’pap.”
When the last sound of Susan’s step had died away, gran’pap put coal on the fire and blew out the light.
“Oh, my! oh my!” said he. “What will she say when she finds it out?”