round here mostly call him," replied
Addison. "So I do. It doesn't sound quite so childish as to be always
saying grandfather, or grandpa.

"Of course," Addison continued, "we expect girls, or little boys, to say
'grandfather,' or 'gramp'; but we boys when we are out among other boys,
have to say the 'Old Squire,' or the 'old man,' or else they would be
laughing at us for milksops. It doesn't do for a boy to seem too
childish, you know.

"But I never like the sound of 'the old man,'" Addison went on coaching
me confidentially. "Sounds disrespectful and sort of rowdy. I don't like
'old gent,' either. But I sometimes speak of grandfather as the old
gentleman and of grandmother, generally, as 'Gram.' So do the girls. She
likes that, too; for some reason she doesn't like to be called
grandmother very well. I guess it makes her feel too old. For fun I
called her 'Ruth' one day. That is her given name, you know. She looked
at me and laughed. 'Addison,' she exclaimed, 'you are getting to be
quite a young man!'

"But I guess if the truth were known," Addison continued sapiently,
"that no oldish people like to be called grandpa and grandma very well,
till they get to be as much as eighty years old. Then they seem to enjoy
it."

Grandmother provided but two meals on Sunday: breakfast at about eight
in the morning, and dinner at three in the afternoon. Consequently we
were sitting down to dinner, with very good appetites, judging the
others by my own, when one seat was seen to be vacant.

"Where's Halstead?" the Old Squire asked.

There was an expectant hush; and again I saw Theodora and Addison glance
across to each other. As no one seemed to know, nothing further was
said. We were half through dinner, when the absent one came quickly
into the kitchen, looking very red and much heated. With a stealthy
glance through the open door into the dining-room, he hastily bathed his
face in cold water, then came in and took his place. His hair was wet,
his collar limp, and altogether he looked like a boy fresh from a hot
run.

"Where have you been, Halstead?" the Old Squire inquired.

"Up in the sheep pasture, sir," said Halstead promptly. "I can't make
but forty-seven lambs, the way I count. There is one gone."

"A very sudden liking for shepherd life," remarked Addison in an
undertone to Theodora.

"What made you run and heat yourself so?" Gram asked him.

"I was afraid I should be late to dinner," answered Halstead with a