to tuck her hand in his enormous one
and talk to him about strange, mysterious things.

Grandma wasn't nearly so big--indeed she wasn't much taller than Missy
herself; and she was proud of her activity--her "spryness," she called
it. She boasted of her ability to stoop over and, without bending her
knees, to lay both palms flat on the floor. Even Missy's mother couldn't
do that, and sometimes she seemed to grow a little tired of being
reminded of it. Grandma liked to talk as much as grandpa liked to keep
silent; and always, to the running accompaniment of her tongue, she
kept her hands busied, whether "puttering about" in her house or
flower-garden, or crocheting "tidies," or knitting little mittens, or
creating the multi-coloured paper-flowers which helped make her house so
alluring.

That night for supper they had beefsteak and hot biscuits and custard
pie; and grandma let her eat these delicacies which were forbidden at
home. She even let her drink coffee! Not that Missy cared especially for
coffee--it had a bitter taste; but drinking it made her feel grown-up.
She always felt more grown-up at grandma's than at home. She was
"company," and they showed her a consideration one never receives at
home.

After supper Cousin Pete went out somewhere, and the other three had
a long, pleasant evening. Another agreeable feature about staying at
grandma's was that they didn't make such a point of her going to bed
early. The three of them sat out on the porch till the night came
stealing up; it covered the street and the yard with darkness, crawled
into the tree tops and the rose-bushes and the lilac-hedge. It hid all
the familiar objects of daytime, except the street-lamp at the corner
and certain windows of the neighbours' houses, which now showed square
and yellow. Of the people on the porch next door, and of those passing
in the street, only the voices remained; and, sometimes, a glowing point
of red which was a cigar.

Presently the moon crept up from behind the Jones's house, peeping
stealthily, as if to make sure that all was right in Cherryvale. And
then everything became visible again, but in a magically beautiful way;
it was now like a picture from a fairy-tale. Indeed, this was the hour
when your belief in fairies was most apt to return to you.

The locusts began to sing. They sang loudly. And grandma kept up her
chatter. But within Missy everything seemed to become very quiet.
Suddenly she felt sad, a peculiar,