in going up the stair, more than once my uncle had said to me, 'You
must not mind what grannie says, Willie, for old people will often
speak strange things that young people cannot understand. But you must
love grannie, for she is a very good old lady.'

'Well, grannie, how are you to-day?' said my uncle, as we entered, this
particular Sunday.

I may as well mention at once that my uncle called her _grannie_ in his
own right and not in mine, for she was in truth my great-grandmother.

'Pretty well, David, I thank you; but much too long out of my grave,'
answered grannie; in no sepulchral tones, however, for her voice,
although weak and uneven, had a sound in it like that of one of the
upper strings of a violin. The plaintiveness of it touched me, and I
crept near her--nearer than, I believe, I had ever yet gone of my own
will--and laid my hand upon hers. I withdrew it instantly, for there
was something in the touch that made me--not shudder, exactly--but
creep. Her hand was smooth and soft, and warm too, only somehow the
skin of it seemed dead. With a quicker movement than belonged to her
years, she caught hold of mine, which she kept in one of her hands,
while she stroked it with the other. My slight repugnance vanished for
the time, and I looked up in her face, grateful for a tenderness which
was altogether new to me.

'What makes you so long out of your grave, grannie?' I asked.

'They won't let me into it, my dear.'

'Who won't let you, grannie?'