THE MEDLICOTTS. CHAPTER I. GRANDMOTHER'S ROOM. 'She is a woman; one in whom The spring-time of her childish years J. R. Lowel. IN Grandmother's room the dusk was falling. All over the rest of the house the lamps were lit, but Grandmother's room faced the west, and the daylight lingered there longer than in any of the other rooms. In the square the trees had faded to ghostly quivering phantoms. The cry of the muffin-man sounded weird and pathetic, and told that autumn was threatened by winter. And the day was wintry enough to send contented shudders through those who were not obliged to face its wild bitter wind and intermittent hail showers. Grandmother was lying on a low couch near the fire, her dainty old face in shadow. Dainty seemed the only word to describe Grandmother. Her face, her hands, her clothes, and all her ways, held the essence of daintiness. Possibly she was more beautiful as an old woman than she had ever been as a young one. Some faces take the greater part of their years on earth to come to their full perfection. And to the adoring household in Bloomsbury Square it seemed that Grandmother grew more beautiful every day. For the sweetness of her soul shone out like a lamp, and drew all other souls towards it. Grandmother was never lonely, though all her life was passed between this quiet rose-scented room and the bedroom beyond. She had never been out of doors since the long illness that had left her an invalid some years ago. And she never went downstairs. But "Grandmother's Room" was the accepted rendezvous for all the Medlicott family. Not one of them ever seemed to contemplate for a moment that Grandmother would not be glad to see them. They knew she loved them, every one, collectively and individually; and that their sorrows and pleasures were just as much hers as their own. No queen regnant ever held a more absolute reign over a kingdom than Grandmother; and though her subjects were difficult and unruly enough at times, she handled the reins of government with a light skilled hand that was as wise as it was loving. "If God's anything like Grandmother," her grandson Garry had observed on one occasion in comparatively early youth "I fancy Heaven'll be a nicer place than it sounds in church." When this was repeated to Grandmother, her sweet blue eyes filled with tears. For we are never too old to be touched by the rough compliments of the boys and girls that nestle so close to our hearts. Besides being the home of Grandmother-which would have made any room beautiful-Grandmother's room was beautiful in itself and in its belongings. It was long and somewhat low-ceiled, and had two large windows draped with heavy crimson curtains. There were lace curtains too, but even in summer, Grandmother liked to have the darker ones as well. Thus the room was always a little in shadow. The walls were papered with old-fashioned flock paper, also of deep crimson, which showed up in bold relief the valuable pictures on which the firelight was now shining fitfully. Grandmother was very proud of her pictures, and with reason. The furniture was all of oak, black with age, and here and there mirrors on the reflected the pictures, and the rare old china, and the branched silver candlesticks that stood large cabinet facing the fire. There were two handsome old-fashioned screens in the room, for Grandmother was apt to feel chilly, and draughts to the old are as objectionable as restraint to the young. And there was always a fire, large or small, according to the weather. There were always flowers, too; and well-cared for plants that smelled sweetly but not heavily, stood about in great brass bowls that were at least a century older than any of the eyes that looked on them. All the new books and magazines found their way here. For Grandmother moved with the times, and took a keen interest in every question of the hour. In a dusky corner stood a fine old grand piano; for Grandmother loved music, and was quite an authority on the works of the best composers, old and new. Just now Grandmother Grandmother was knitting. She was nearly always knitting; and she knitted so fast, it was marvellous to watch her. Stockings and socks, shawls and bedroom-slippers, flew from Grandmother's never-tiring fingers with a rapidity that was almost inconceivable. Suddenly an ivory cuckoo-clock in a corner announced the hour of six, and as the cuckoo flew in again, the door of Grandmother's room opened and a man came |