his knee. It was a pleasant thing to behold that fair and golden-haired
child in the lap of the old man, and to think that, different as they
were, the hearts of both could be gladdened with the same joys.

"Grandfather," said little Alice, laying her head back upon his arm, "I am
very tired now. You must tell me a story to make me go to sleep."

"That is not what story-tellers like," answered Grandfather, smiling.
"They are better satisfied when they can keep their auditors awake."

"But here are Laurence, and Charley, and I," cried cousin Clara, who was
twice as old as little Alice. "We will all three keep wide awake. And
pray, Grandfather, tell us a story about this strange-looking old chair."

Now, the chair in which Grandfather sat was made of oak, which had grown
dark with age, but had been rubbed and polished till it shone as bright as
mahogany. It was very large and heavy, and had a back that rose high above
Grandfather’s white head. This back was curiously carved in open work, so
as to represent flowers and foliage and other devices; which the children
had often gazed at, but could never understand what they meant. On the
very tiptop of the chair, over the head of Grandfather himself, was a
likeness of a lion’s head, which had such a savage grin that you would
almost expect to hear it growl and snarl.

The children had seen Grandfather sitting in this chair ever since they
could remember any thing. Perhaps the younger of them supposed that he and
the chair had come into the world together, and that both had always been
as old as they were now. At this time, however, it happened to be the
fashion for ladies to adorn their drawing-rooms with the oldest and oddest
chairs that could be found. It seemed to cousin Clara that if these ladies