"Very well, I shall be ready." But after a moment's thought she continued, "No, I will not go. I am only a mortal woman, and the company of angels bores me yet."
"Now, Granny, dear."
"I mean what I say. Your father has married such a piece of perfection that I feel my shortcomings in her presence more than I can bear. But I'll tell you what, dearie, Tyrrel may come for me Saturday night at six, and I will have my dinner with you. I want to see the dining-room of a swell hotel in full dress; and I will wear my violet satin and white Spanish lace, and look as smart as can be, dear. And Tyrrel may buy me a bunch of white violets. I am none too old to wear them. Who knows but I may go to the theater also?"
"Oh, Granny, you are just the dearest young lady I know! Tyrrel will be as proud as a peacock."
"Well, I am not as young as I might be, but I am a deal younger than I look. Listen, dearie, I have never FELT old yet! Isn't that a thing to be grateful for? I don't read much poetry, except it be in the Church Hymnal, but I cut a verse out of a magazine a year ago which just suits my idea of life, and, what is still more wonderful, I took the trouble to learn it. Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote it, and I'll warrant him for a good, cheerful, trust-in-God man, or he'd never have thought of such sensible words."
"I am listening, Granny, for the verse."
"Yes, and learn it yourself. It will come in handy some day, when Tyrrel and you are getting white-haired and handsome, as everyone ought to get when they have passed their half-century and are facing the light of the heavenly world: "At sixty-two life has begun; At seventy-three begins once more; Fly swifter as thou near'st the sun, And brighter shine at eighty-four. At ninety-five, Should thou arrive, Still wait on God, and work and thrive."
Such words as those, Ethel, keep a woman young, and make her right glad that she was born and thankful that she lives."
"Thank you for them, dear Granny. Now I must run away as fast as I can. Tyrrel will be wondering what has happened to me."
In this conjecture she was right. Tyrrel was in evening dress, and walking restlessly about their private parlor. "Ethel," he said, plaintively, "I have been so uneasy about you."