The house had many rooms, all more or less dark and irregularly shaped.  The construction of the chambers was so involved, I could not get out of one without going into another.  Some of the ceilings slanted suddenly, and some so gradually that where I could stand erect, and where I must stoop, I never remembered, until my head was unpleasantly grazed, or my eyes filled with flakes of ancient lime-dust.  A long chamber in the middle of the house was the shop, always smelling of woolen shreds.  At sunset, summer or winter, Aunt Mercy sprinkled water on the unpainted floor, and swept it.  While she swept I made my thumb sore, by snipping the bits of cloth that were scattered on the long counter by the window with Grand’ther’s shears, or I scrawled figures with gray chalk, where I thought they might catch his eye.  When she had finished sweeping she carefully sorted the scraps, and put them into boxes under the counter; then she neatly rolled up the brown-paper curtains, which had been let down to exclude the afternoon sun; shook the old patchwork cushions in the osier-bottomed chairs; watered the rose-geranium and the monthly rose, which flourished wonderfully in that fluffy atmosphere; set every pin and needle in its place, and shut the door, which was opened again at sunrise.  Of late years, Grand’ther’s occupation had declined.  No new customers came.  A few, who did not change the fashion of their garb, still patronized him.  His income was barely three hundred dollars a year—­eked out to this amount by some small pay for offices connected with the church, of which he was a prominent member.  From this income he paid his pulpit tithe, gave to the poor, and lived independent and respectable.  Mother endeavored in an unobtrusive way to add to his comfort; but he would only accept a few herrings from the Surrey Weir every spring, and a basket of apples every fall.  He invariably returned her presents by giving her a share of his plums and quinces.

I had only seen Grand’ther Warren at odd intervals.  He rarely came to our house; when he did, he rode down on the top of the Barmouth stagecoach, returning in a few hours.  As mother never liked to go to Barmouth, she seldom came to see me.

CHAPTER VIII.

It was five o’clock on Saturday afternoon when father left me.  Aunt Mercy continued her preparations for tea, and when it was ready, went to the foot of the stairs, and called, “Supper.”  Grand’ther came down immediately followed by two tall, cadaverous women, Ruth and Sally Aikin, tailoresses, who sewed for him spring and fall.  Living several miles from Barmouth, they stayed through the week, going home on Saturday night, to return on Monday morning.  We stood behind the heavy oak chairs round the table, one of which Grand’ther tipped backward, and said a long grace, not a word of which was heard; for his teeth were gone, and he prayed in his throat.  Aunt Mercy’s “Moltee”