The coach stopped. A great wall of rock rose up darkly, just ahead. It was the end of the road.
They stepped out onto the snowy ground, and Merrimeg turned round to say good-bye. The old coachman touched his cap with his whip. The ponies arched their necks and bowed and pawed the ground. There was nothing left of the coach’s body except the seats.
Myrma took the old lady’s hand, and pointed towards a lighted window which glowed in the darkness.
“Yes, I know,” said Merrimeg.
They stood before an old, old house, with a knocker on the door. Over the knocker was the number “80.”
“Come in,” said Myrma, and she opened the door.
Inside was a warm and cosy room. Candles were glimmering on a polished table, and a fire was sparkling on the open hearth. A grandfather’s clock was going tick-tock in the corner.
Merrimeg gave a sigh of contentment. She sat down in an easy chair before the fire, and sat there nodding her head at it and smiling to herself. Her cane was resting against her knee. Her old hands were folded in her lap.
“Bring them in,” she said, and Myrma went out through a rear door.
In a moment there were children’s voices in the room, crying “Grandmother!” and half a dozen boys and girls, big and little, were sitting round her on the floor, looking up at her fondly. She laid her hand on the head of the littlest, and smoothed his curls. But she kept nodding at the fire all the while, as if her thoughts were far off.