next day, nor the next, nor the next, did he rise; and soon it became an accepted fact that Grandfather did not care to get up any more. He had no pain, and smiled often; but he seldom spoke, and when he did it was of old times, which seemed to be fresher to his mind than the things which were about him. Thekla moved her wheel indoors, and sat where his eyes could rest upon her the moment he waked; while Max, laying aside all his boyish frisk and bounce, moved about the cottage with steps gentle as a girl's. And so, quietly and rather sadly, the month wore away.
The last evening proved a fierce and gusty one. Amid the pauses of the wind a soft whirring sound as of wings beating outside could be heard. It came from great heaps of rustling leaves driven against the cottage walls by the blast. No other noise broke the stillness, except the crackling of a pine fagot upon the fire, which filled the room with light and fragrance. Thekla and Max sat silently beside the blaze;—the Grandfather slept. It was so long since either had
