for the news, and glanced about the room so full of memories of his
own departed youth, he said to himself with more bitterness than
usual: "I'm old; I'm very old, and helpless; life has no use for me,
and it's an infernal shame."

Joan read on patiently, glancing from time to time at the man who
seemed to her to be older than the hills, startlingly, terribly old,
and stopped only when, having lowered himself into his arm-chair, he
seemed to have fallen asleep. Then, as usual, she laid the paper
aside, eager to be up and doing, but sat on, fearful of moving. Her
grandfather had a way of looking as though he would never wake up
again, and of being as ready as a tiger to pounce upon her if she
tried to slip away. She would never forget some of the sarcastic
things he had said at these times, never! He seemed to take an
unexplainable delight in making her feel that she had no right to be
so young. He had never confided to her the tragedy of having a young
mind and an old body, young desires and winter in his blood. He had
never opened the door in his fourth wall and let her see how
bitterly he resented having been forced out of life and the great
chase, to creep like an old hound the ancient dogs among. He had
never let her suspect that the tragedy of old age had hit him hard,
filling his long hours with regret for what he might have done or
done better. Perhaps he was ashamed to confess these things that
were so futile and so foolish. Perhaps he was afraid to earn a young
incredulous laugh at the pathetic picture of himself playing Canute
with the on-coming tide of years. He was not understood by this
girl, because he had never allowed her to get a glimpse into his
heart; and so she failed to know that he insisted upon keeping her
in his house, even to the point of extreme selfishness, because he
lived his youth over again in the constant sight of her. What a long