"Kiss poor grandpapa and make him well!" answered the child, remembering
the Doctor's own mode of cure in similar mishaps to herself. "It shall do
poor grandpapa good!" she added, putting up her mouth to apply the remedy.

"Ah, little one, thou hast greater faith in thy medicines than ever I had
in my drugs," replied the patriarch, with a giggle, surprised and
delighted at his own readiness of response. "But the kiss is good for my
feeble old heart, Pansie, though it might do little to mend a broken neck;
so give grandpapa another dose, and let us to breakfast."

In this merry humor they sat down to the table, great-grandpapa and Pansie
side by side, and the kitten, as soon appeared, making a third in the
party. First, she showed her mottled head out of Pansie's lap, delicately
sipping milk from the child's basin without rebuke: then she took post on
the old gentleman's shoulder, purring like a spinning-wheel, trying her
claws in the wadding of his dressing-gown, and still more impressively
reminding him of her presence by putting out a paw to intercept a warmed-
over morsel of yesterday's chicken on its way to the Doctor's mouth. After
skilfully achieving this feat, she scrambled down upon the breakfast-table
and began to wash her face and hands. Evidently, these companions were all
three on intimate terms, as was natural enough, since a great many
childish impulses were softly creeping back on the simple-minded old man;
insomuch that, if no worldly necessities nor painful infirmity had
disturbed him, his remnant of life might have been as cheaply and cheerily
enjoyed as the early playtime of the kitten and the child. Old Dr.
Dolliver and his great-granddaughter (a ponderous title, which seemed
quite to overwhelm the tiny figure of Pansie) had met one another at the
two extremities of the life-circle: her sunrise served him for a sunset,
illuminating his locks of silver and hers of golden brown with a
homogeneous shimmer of twinkling light.