“You used to pay me a Sunday visit every week,” said the old lady, pleased to find that her guest still lingered.  “I don’t know why, but I always have a hope that you will find time to run over for half an hour.  I said to myself yesterday that a figure of me in wax would do just as well as anything nowadays.  I get up and dress myself, and make the journey downstairs, and sit here at the window and have my dinner and go through the same round day after day.  If it weren’t for a certain amount of expense it incurs, and occupation to other people, I think it would be of very little use.  However, there are some people still left who need me.  Who is it says—­Beranger perhaps—­that to love benefits one’s self, and to inspire love benefits others.  I like to think that the children and grandchildren have the old place to think of and come back to.  I can see that it is a great bond between them all, and that is very good.  I begin to feel like a very old woman; it would be quite different, you know, if I were active and busy out of doors, and the bustling sort of person for which nature intended me.  As it is, my mind is bustling enough for itself and its body both.”

“Well,” said the doctor, laughing a little, “what is it now?”

“The little girl,” answered Mrs. Graham, gravely.  “I think it is quite time she knew something of society.  Don’t tell yourself that I am notional and frivolous; I know you have put a great deal of hope and faith and affection into that child’s career.  It would disappoint you dreadfully if she were not interesting and harmonious to people in general.  It seems a familiar fact now that she should have come to live with you, that she should be growing up in your house; but the first thing we know she will be a young lady instead of an amusing child, and I think that you cannot help seeing that a great deal of responsibility belongs to you.  She must be equipped and provisioned for the voyage of life; she must have some resources.”

“But I think she has more than most children.”

“Yes, yes, I dare say.  She is a bright little creature, but her brightness begins to need new things to work upon.  She does very well at school now, I hear, and she minds very well and is much less lawless than she used to be; but she is like a candle that refuses to burn, and is satisfied with admiring its candlestick.  She is quite the queen of the village children in one way, and in another she is quite apart from them.  I believe they envy her and look upon her as being of another sort, and yet count her out of half their plans and pleasures, and she runs home, not knowing whether to be pleased or hurt, and pulls down half a dozen of your books and sits proudly at the window.  Her poor foolish mother had some gifts, but she went adrift very soon, and I should teach Nan her duty to her neighbor, and make her take in the idea that she owes something to the world beside following out her own most satisfying