remained where I was, fixed in contemplation of my treasure. She called
me. I went and stood by her knee.

'My child, there is something I want very much to tell you, but you
know old people forget things--'

'But you said just now that you never forgot anything, grannie.'

'No more I do, my dear; only I can't always lay my hands upon a thing
when I want it.'

'It was about the sword, grannie,' I said, thinking to refresh her
memory.

'No, my dear; I don't think it was about the sword exactly--though that
had something to do with it. I shall remember it all by-and-by. It will
come again. And so must you, my dear. Don't leave your old mother so
long alone. It's weary, weary work, waiting.'

'Indeed I won't, grannie,' I said. 'I will come the very first time I
can. Only I mustn't let auntie see me, you know.--You don't want to be
buried now, do you, grannie?' I added; for I had begun to love her, and
the love had cast out the fear, and I did not want her to wish to be
buried.

'I am very, very old; much too old to live, my dear. But I must do you
justice before I can go to my grave. _Now_ I know what I wanted to say.
It's gone again. Oh dear! Oh dear! If I had you in the middle of the
night, when everything comes back as if it had been only yesterday, I
could tell you all about it from beginning to end, with all the ins and