All this time Grandpapa is in happy—­no, I won’t say “happy,” for the old gentleman is always, to give him his due, pleased to welcome the children to his presence, “at the right time and in the right manner,” be it understood—­in complete unconsciousness of their near neighbourhood.  There was nothing to reveal it; they had not left the door open so as to cause a draught, for Grandpapa abhorred draughts; they were as still and quiet as two little mice, when mice are quiet that is to say.  For often in the middle of the night, when my sleep has been disturbed by these same little animals who have been held up as a model for never disturbing any one, I have wondered how they gained this distinction!  “When mouses is quiet, perhaps it’s cos they isn’t there,” said a little boy I know, and the remark seems to me worthy of deep consideration.

Grandpapa was absorbed in his newspaper, for it was newspaper day for him, and newspaper day only came once a week, and when it—­the paper, not the day—­did come, it was already the best part of a week old.  For it came all the way from London, and that not by the post, as we understand the word, but by the post of those days, which meant “his Majesty’s mail,” literally speaking, and his Majesty’s mail took a very long time indeed to reach outlying parts of the country, for all the brave appearance, horses foaming, whips cracking, and flourishing of horns, not to say trumpets, with which it clattered over the stones of the “High Streets” of those days.  And the paper—­poor two-leaved, miserable little pretence that we should think it—­cost both for itself and for its journey from London, oh so dear!  I am afraid to say how much, for I should be sorry to exaggerate.  But “those days” are receding ever farther and farther from us, and as I write it comes over me sadly that it is no use now to leave a blank on my page and say to myself, “I will ask dear such a one, or such an other.  He or she will remember, and I will fill it in afterwards.”  For those dear ones of the last generation are passing from us—­have already passed from us in such numbers that we who were young not so very long ago shall ere long find ourselves in their places.  So I would rather not say what Grandpapa’s newspaper cost, but certainly it was dear enough and rare enough for him to think of little else the day it came; and I don’t suppose he would have noticed the two children at all, till Grandmamma had made him do so, had it not been that just as they were beginning to be a little tired, to whisper to each other, “Suppose us stands on other legs for a change,” something—­I don’t know what—­for his snuff-box had been lying peacefully in his waistcoat pocket ever since Dymock, his old soldier-servant, had brought in the newspaper—­made him sneeze.  And with the sneeze he left off looking at the paper and raised his eyes, and his eyes being very good ones for his age—­much better in comparison than his ears—­he quickly caught sight of his grandchildren.