“Trouble’s got fixed on her mind,” said he when he despaired. “Perhaps she can’t change any more.”
“But I’ll try”—this was the invariable conclusion of grandfather’s meditations. “For the sake of her and these children, I’ll try.”
Several times gran’pap was almost caught. The odor of popcorn was sniffed by Thomas and Eliza, returning a little earlier than usual from school, and a large supply had to be handed over to them. A spot of gilding on gran’pap’s coat was explained with difficulty. For the last days after the great tree had been dragged into the shop and set up gran’pap was in constant fear.
“On Christmas eve, after those children are in bed, I’ll take her over,” planned gran’pap. “I’ll have a light burning. When she sees the tree, she’ll feel different.”
But now Christmas eve was past and Susan had not been led to the little shop. Susan had gone to her room and gran’pap had gone to his and Christmas morning was almost at hand. Gran’pap had never been so miserable.
“She’ll never forgive me,” said he, as he lay down upon his bed and looked up at the stars. “Oh, dear! oh dear!”
At two o’clock gran’pap woke, conscious of a disturbance of mind. He lay for a moment thinking of Susan, then he realized that it was another uneasiness which had disturbed him.
“I left that light burning!” said he, as he sprang out of bed.
He dressed quickly, and went down the stairs into the kitchen. To his consternation the door stood ajar.
“Burglars!” said gran’pap. Then gran’pap stood still. The shop was on the side of Susan’s room; he saw in the dim firelight that Susan’s shawl was gone from its hook.