Tom did not get up in the afternoon. However, he came in the evening, and the next morning, and the next.

Margaretta and Roger, Bonny, Selina, and Mr. Jimson also came. Grandma was decidedly better, and in their joy they came even oftener than they had in their sorrow at her illness.

Berty could hardly contain herself for very lightness and extravagance of spirit. It had seemed to her that she could not endure the mere thought of a further and long-continued illness on the part of her beloved grandmother. To think of that other contingency—her possible death—sent her into fits of shuddering and despondency in which it seemed as if she, too, would die if her grandmother did.

Now all was changed. Day by day the exquisite[271] sunshine continued, the air was balmy, there was a yellow haze about the sun. It seemed to Berty that she was living in an enchanted world. Grandma was going about the house with a firm step—a bright eye. She had gone over all her trunks and closets. She had sorted letters, tidied her boxes of clothes, and arranged all her belongings with a neatness and expedition that seemed to betoken the energy of returned youthfulness.

She was also knitting again. Nothing had pleased Berty as much as this. Tears of delight fell on the silk stocking as she handed it to Grandma the first time she asked her for it.

“Dear Grandma,” said Berty, on this afternoon, abruptly dropping on a foot-stool beside her, and putting her head on her knee, “dear Grandma.”

Mrs. Travers, still steadily knitting, glanced at her as if to say, “Why this sudden access of affection?”

“It doesn’t mean anything in particular,” said Berty, pressing still closer, “only that you are so dear.”

Grandma smiled, and went on with her work.

“You are just toeing that stocking off,” said Berty.

“Yes, dear,” replied her grandmother. “This is[272] the last of the six pairs for Mrs. Darley-James. You will remember, Berty, they are all for her.”

“Why should I remember?” asked the girl, anxiously. “You always remember for yourself.”

“True,” said Mrs. Travers, composedly, and, getting up, she went to her writing-desk. Taking out a roll of exquisitely made stockings, she wrapped them in a piece of paper, and with a firm hand wrote, “Mrs. Darley-James, from her old friend, Margaret Travers.”

Having directed the parcel, she left her desk and went to the veranda.

Berty followed her. Grandma was looking strangely up and down the river—strangely and restlessly. At last she said, “It’s a glorious afternoon. I should like to go out in a boat.”

“But, Grandma,” said Berty, uneasily, “do you feel able for it?”

Her grandmother looked at her, and the brightness of her face silenced the girl’s scruples.

“I will take you in my boat, dear,” she said, gently, “if you wish to go.”

“I should like to have Margaretta come,” said Mrs. Travers.

“Very well, we will send for her.”

“And Roger,” said Grandma.

[273]

“Roger is at an important business meeting this afternoon, I happen to know,” said Berty, hesitatingly.

“He would leave it for me,” said Grandma.

“Do you wish me to ask him?” inquired Berty, in some anxiety.

“Yes,” said Grandma, softly.

Berty got up and was about to leave the veranda, when Mrs. Travers ............