thought of politics roused him like a
trumpet--it went straight to his ancient heart.

"Read that again," he said. "How many voters now?"

"A hundred voters in this street, 1884."

"We've got them all"--coughing--"all in my lord's houses, everyone; vote
Conservative, one and all. What is it?" as some one knocked. Dinner was
ready, to Amaryllis's relief.

"Perhaps you would like to dine with me?" asked the grandfather,
shuffling up his papers. "There--there," as she hesitated, "you would
like to dine with young people, of course--of course."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XII.

OLD Grandfather Iden always dined alone in the parlour, with his
housekeeper to wait on him; they were just bringing in his food. The
family and visitors had their meals in a separate and much more
comfortable apartment in another part of the house, which was large.
Sometimes, as a great favour and special mark of approval, the old Pacha
would invite you to eat with him.

Amaryllis, though anxious to please him, hesitated, not only because of
the smoke, but because she knew he always had pork for dinner.

The rich juices of roast pork sustained his dry and withered frame--it
was a sort of Burgundy of flesh to him. As the good wine of Burgundy
fills the blood with iron and strengthens the body, so the rich juice of
the pork seemed to supply the oil necessary to keep the sinews supple
and to prevent the cartilages from stiffening.

The scientific people say that it is the ossification of the
cartilages--the stiffening of the firmer tissues--that in time
interferes with the processes of life. The hinges rust, as if your
tricycle had been left out in the rain for a week--and the delicate
watchwork of the human frame will not run.

If suppleness could only be maintained there is no reason why it should
not continue to work for a much longer period, for a hundred and fifty,
two hundred years--as long as you fancy. But nothing has yet been
devised to keep up the suppleness.

Grandfather Iden found the elixir of life in roast pork. The jokers of
Woolhorton--there are always jokers, very clever they think
themselves--considered the reason it suited him so well was because of
the pig-like obstinacy of his disposition.

Anything more contrary to common sense than for an old man of ninety to
feed on pork it would be hard to discover--so his friends said.

"Pork," said the physician, had down from London to see him on