daughter's bravery, and blinked back some tears of her own.

In the excitement of packing up to go to grandma's house, Missy to a
degree forgot her grief. She loved to go to grandma's house. She
liked everything about that house: the tall lilac hedge that
separated the yard from the Curriers' yard next door; the orchard
out in back where grew the apples which sometimes gave her an
"upset"; the garden where grandpa spent hours and hours
"cultivating" his vegetables; and grandma's own particular garden,
which was given over to tall gaudy hollyhocks, and prim rows of
verbena, snap-dragon, phlox, spicy pinks, heliotrope, and other
flowers such as all grandmothers ought to have.

And she liked the house itself, with its many unusual and delightful
appurtenances: no piano--an organ in the parlour, the treadles of
which you must remember to keep pumping, or the music would wheeze
and stop; the "what-not" in the corner, its shelves filled with
fascinating curios--shells of all kinds, especially a big conch
shell which, held close to the ear, still sang a song of the sea;
the marble-topped centre-table, and on it the interesting "album" of
family photographs, and the mysterious contrivance which made so
lifelike the double "views" you placed in the holder; and the lamp
with its shade dripping crystal bangles, like huge raindrops off an
umbrella; and the crocheted "tidies" on all the rocking-chairs, and
the carpet-covered footstools sitting demurely round on the floor,
and the fringed lambrequin on the mantel, and the enormous fan of
peacock feathers spreading out on the wall--oh, yes, grandma's was a
fascinating place!

Then besides, of course, she adored grandpa and grandma. They were