THE GRANDMOTHER'S SHOE.
talked about the two dolls, about Lucy's sister, and my mamma, which was the most indulgent, and which was the prettiest. We talked about what we intended to do when we were grown up. Last of all, as I well remember, we talked about the grandmother herself, her best gown, her walking-stick, how upright she sat, what a trouble she thought us, whether there was any chance of her going to Ireland to visit her other son; how she often said to father, 'Thomas, thy children ought to be kept stricter—stricter, Thomas;' how, once when she said it, father had smiled, and then grandmother had said, 'Thomas, I fear thou art a light man.' 'And we saw father smile,' said Lucy, shrewdly; but the words were scarcely uttered when the smile died out from her own face, and a sudden blush mounted to her forehead. 'What is it, Lucy? what's the matter?' I exclaimed. Lucy sat as still as if she scarcely dared to breathe; she seized my arm to check me, and pointed towards the curtain. Alas! shame and fear soon flushed my face as red as her own, for the terrible conviction struck us that the grandmother was behind it; the curtain had been blown a little backwarder than before by the summer wind, and peering beyond it in the sunshine was the toe of a shoe that could belong only to the grandmother!
Never shall I forget the sensations of the next few minutes, nor the sudden silence that succeeded to our childish and profitless talk. We did not expect to sit there long; every moment we looked for a summons from her to come into her presence and receive the lecture which we knew we so richly deserved; but
