now how to get it," said the
Tailor; and taking his pipe, he went out of the house.

"Is there really nothing to eat, Granny?" asked the boy.

"No, my bairn, only some bread for breakfast to-morrow."

"What makes Father so cross, Granny?"

"He's wearied, and you don't help him, my dear."

"What could I do, Grandmother?"

"Many little things, if you tried," said the old lady. "He spent
half-an-hour to-day, while you were on the moor, getting turf for the
fire, and you could have got it just as well, and he been at his work."

"He never told me," said Tommy.

"You might help me a bit just now, if you would, my laddie," said the
old lady coaxingly; "these bits of cloth want tearing into lengths, and
if you get 'em ready, I can go on knitting. There'll be some food when
this mat is done and sold."

"I'll try," said Tommy, lounging up with desperate resignation. "Hold
my knife, Johnnie. Father's been cross, and everything has been
miserable, ever since the farm was sold. I wish I were a big man, and
could make a fortune.--Will that do, Granny?"

The old lady put down her knitting and looked. "My dear, that's too
short. Bless me! I gave the lad a piece to measure by."

"I thought it was the same length. Oh, dear! I am so tired;" and he
propped himself against the old lady's chair.

"My dear! don't lean so; you'll tipple me over!" she shrieked.

"I beg your pardon, Grandmother. Will _that_ do?"

"It's that much too long."

"Tear that bit off. Now it's all right."

"But, my dear, that wastes it. Now that bit is of no use. There goes my
knitting, you awkward lad!"

"Johnnie, pick it up!--Oh! Grandmother, I _am_ so hungry." The boy's
eyes filled with tears, and the old lady was melted in an
instant.

"What can I do for you, my poor bairns?" said she. "There, never mind
the scraps, Tommy."

"Tell us a tale, Granny. If you told us a new one, I shouldn't keep
thinking of that bread in the cupboard.--Come, Johnnie, and sit against
me. Now then!"

"I doubt if there's one of my old-world cracks I haven't told you,"
said the old lady, "unless it's a queer ghost story was told me years
ago of that house in the hollow with the blocked-up windows."

"Oh! not ghosts!" Tommy broke in; "we've had so many. I know it was a
rattling, or a scratching, or a knocking, or a figure in white; and if
it turns out a tombstone or a white petticoat, I hate it."

"It was nothing of the sort as a tombstone," said the old lady wit