The Whiteoak Brothers. Mazo de la Roche

it up on the spot but his sister appeared, wearing a hat and carrying a basket. He returned the paper to his pocket.

      Meg said — “Oh, Eden, will you, like a dear boy, sit with Granny while I take these raspberries to Miss Pink? She’s having such a time with carpenters working in her house that I thought some nice ripe raspberries would do her good.”

      “Where are the uncles?” asked Eden, as though unwilling.

      “Uncle Nicholas is having a tooth out and Uncle Ernest has gone with him. Of course, he said he didn’t need anyone but you know how it is with a tooth.”

      “Where’s young Finch? Why couldn’t he sit with her?”

      Meg was reproachful. “I do hope you’re not getting selfish, Eden. You used to be so fond of Gran.”

      “I still am. I just wanted to know. Where is she?”

      “Darling, she’s just where she always is at this time of morning. Sitting up in her room.”

      “Good. I’ll go straight to her. Where did you say Renny and Finch are?”

      “Oh, where they usually are, you know. They’ll not be about. Don’t give her anything to eat. She’d a hearty breakfast.”

      He found his grandmother making a show of tidying her top drawer. She was seated in front of the marble-topped dressing table, with its crocheted wool mats, fumbling among the mass of ribbons, yellowed lace, gloves, fans, smelling-salts bottles, and odds and ends which filled the drawer. Boney, perched on her shoulder, was admiring himself in the glass, occasionally turning to peck at the ribbons on her cap or to rub his beak against the fine arch of her nose.

      “Good morning, my grandson,” she greeted him in a strong cheerful voice that showed her to be enjoying one of her good days. “Come and kiss me, do.”

      Wary of the parrot, he put his smooth lips to her ancient cheek. “Morning, Gran.”

      “Sit you down. I’m busy, as you see. But you can talk to me. Repeat some of your verses to me. I like poetry. Used to be able to rattle off pieces by Tom Moore. But I’ve forgotten ’em.”

      “I remember, I remember, Gran.”

      “Say a verse then — if you can.”

      He repeated:

      “I saw from the beach when the morning was shining,

       A bark o’er the waters move gloriously on;

      I came when the sun o’er that beach was declining,

       The bark was still there but the waters were gone.”

       She said, the tears springing to her eyes — “Good! Good boy! Ah, how I wish I could do it now. But me memory’s left me. I’m getting on, you know, I’m ninety-eight on this coming birthday. D’ye think I may live to see a hundred?”

      “I’m sure you will, Gran.” A sudden pity for her made him put out his hand to take hers. What did it feel like to be old, he wondered, and what would he do in the long years that lay ahead of him?

      Because of a feeling of sadness that had risen between them, he said to lighten it — “I know another.”

      “What then?” she demanded eagerly.

      Swinging her hand gently in his he half-chanted:

      “I have a fawn from Aden’s land,

       On leafy buds and berries nurst;

      And you shall feed him from your hand,

       Though he may start with fear at first.

      And I will lead you where he lies

       For shelter from the noontide heat;

      And you may touch his sleeping eyes

       And feel his little silvery feet.”

       He asked — “Remember that, Granny?”

      “I do. I do. And did you learn it from me?”

      “Yes. I’ve a good memory, you know.”

      “It’s a grand thing to have.”

      He could not stop himself. He asked — “Do you remember what we talked of the other day? About making money in investments?”

      “I do not.”

      “Of course you do. The gold mine, you know. Huge profits just for the taking. Indigo Lake Mine. Magnificent vein of gold. You said you’d like to invest.”

      At the word gold Boney shook himself so that his plumage vibrated with a rustling sound and shouted:

      “Gold! Gold! Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!”

      Though Eden’s words brought no recollection of the interview to her, the voice of the parrot did. She struck her hands together, her eyes brightened.

      “I do — I do remember. I was going to invest in gold. That’s what it was. Gold!”

      The parrot fairly shook himself off her shoulder.

      “Gold!” he screamed. “Ruddy gold! Shaitan! Shaitan ka batka! Piakur!

      Jab kutr!”

      Eden drew the power of attorney from his pocket. “You can’t sell your own government bonds without signing this. Not unless you have your lawyer out.”

      “He’d never let me. He’s an old slow-coach. Never risked anything. His wife never risked even one child. My mother had eleven.”

      He spread the paper in front of her, his hands trembling a little. “This is what you must sign, Gran — if you want to invest in the gold stocks.”

      “Gold! Gold!” shrieked Boney. “Ruddy gold!”

      She peered at the paper. She seemed not to like the look of it and drew back. “I’d not be signing anything away, should I?”

      “No, no, just giving me the power to sell government bonds for you.”

      “I don’t want to sign anything away. I like to hang on to the bit I have.”

      Eden folded up the paper. “All right, Gran. I’ll let someone else have the stock.”

      “Gold!” cried Boney, pulling out a feather and letting it fall on her lap. “Gold — you old devil!”

      Adeline took up the feather — itself of a bright gold — and flourished it. “It’s a sign,” she exclaimed. “A good omen. Give me my pen. I’ll put down my name.”

      Eagerly Eden sought the pen and last discovered it behind Boney’s seed-box. He spread the power of attorney on her worn leather writing-folio, then discovered there was no ink.

      “Will you use my fountain pen, Gran?”

      “No, no. I don’t like these newfangled notions. My father always used a quill pen. And when he went to sharpen it —”

      “Gran,” Eden interrupted. “I’ll fetch the ink. Just a jiffy and I’ll be back.” He darted from the room.

      When he returned two minutes later, with the ink-bottle in his hand, he found Wakefield leaning against his grandmother’s shoulder and holding up his thin brown knee for sympathy.

      “He’s given his knee a rasp,” she explained. “And he’s come to be comforted, bless his heart.”

      Eden, longing to take the child by the scruff and put him out, bent to look. He said, patting Wakefield’s back — “That’s a very small scratch. Do you feel able to walk as far as Mrs. Brawn’s for some pop and a chocolate bar?” He found some small coins in his pocket and put the necessary into Wake’s hand. “Better hurry or you’ll be late for lunch.”

      “Thanks,” murmured Wakefield.