angry. She looked to my fancy as if she were trying but unable to lie
down. My uncle closed the doors very gently. In the middle of the stair
he stopped, and said in a low voice,

'Willie, do you know that when people grow very old they are not quite
like other people?'

'Yes. They want to go to the churchyard,' I answered.

'They fancy things,' said my uncle. 'Grannie thinks you are her own
son.'

'And ain't I?' I asked innocently.

'Not exactly,' he answered. 'Your father was her son's son. She forgets
that, and wants to talk to you as if you were your grandfather. Poor
old grannie! I don't wish you to go and see her without your aunt or
me: mind that.'

Whether I made any promise I do not remember; but I know that a new
something was mingled with my life from that moment. An air as it were
of the tomb mingled henceforth with the homely delights of my life.
Grannie wanted to die, and uncle would not let her. She longed for her
grave, and they would keep her above-ground. And from the feeling that
grannie ought to be buried, grew an awful sense that she was not
alive--not alive, that is, as other people are alive, and a gulf was
fixed between her and me which for a long time I never attempted to
pass, avoiding as much as I could all communication with her, even when
my uncle or aunt wished to take me to her room. They did not seem
displeased, however, when I objected, and not always insisted on