her gingersnaps and other tempting delicacies, he did so with a sense of
wickedness that limited his gratefulness.

A retired dry goods dealer and his good-hearted old wife lived on the
second floor. The Fernbloms were the aristocracy of the house in the
lane, having the best rooms, paying the highest rent and giving the
biggest parties, but even Keith guessed quite early that they were
simple souls, risen by thrift from very humble origins. They had a
single daughter, a girl of delicate health and looks with whom Keith
probably would have fallen in love hopelessly if she had stayed in the
house. But she married early, moved to some other city and was rarely
seen in her old home. Reports of her progress were received, of course,
and passed on in the hearing of Keith, but like so many other things not
touching his own life closely, it carried no real meaning to his mind.
The parties continued, and Keith's parents were often invited, partly
because the old couple was too simple-minded to think of social
distinctions, and partly because they both came from the same district
as Keith's Granny. Keith would be allowed to come along at times, and he
liked the idea of going and the good food, but otherwise he found it
dull business watching a lot of grown-up people seated solemnly about
square tables playing cards. Then, one day, the old lady died, and Keith
attended a part of the funeral, and from the window he saw the coffin
taken away in a hearse buried in flowers. It made him ask many questions
of his mother, but none of her answers brought death any closer to his
mind. After all, the old lady had been nothing to him, and if the
parties should cease as he heard was likely, the loss did not seem great
to him. The only thing that made a real difference to him was his
discovery that there would be no more of those ball-shaped gingersnaps
that the old lady used to bake herself and keep in an earthen jar almost
as tall as Keith.