Her bodily comfort was seen to. She was well fed and reasonably
clothed, and had a good bed in which to sleep. Where she was sinned
against was in this: that her family looked upon her white hair and her
wrinkles and arrived at the erroneous conclusion that her interest in
life was gone--in short, that she was content to cumber the earth and to
wait for the long sleep. To them she was simply one who tarries and is
content. Scattergood looked into her sharp, old eyes, eyes that were
capable of sudden gleams of humor or flashes of anger, and he _knew_. He
knew that death seemed as distant to Grandmother Penny as it had seemed
fifty years ago. He knew that her interest in life was as keen, her
yearning to participate in the affairs of life as strong, as they had
been when Grandfather Penny--now long gone to his reward--had driven his
horse over the hills with one hand while he utilized the other arm for
more important and delightful purposes.
Scattergood was remembering his own grandmother. He had known her as no
other living soul had known her, because she had been his boyhood
intimate, his defender, always his advocate, and because the boyish love
which he had given her had made his eyes keen to perceive.
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