Grandmother Dear | Page 4

ones were not
like most!
"What is the matter, dear?" grandmother was beginning to exclaim,
when she was stopped by feeling two arms hugging her tightly, and a
rather bread-and-buttery little mouth kissing her valorously.
"Nothing's the matter," said Molly, when she stopped her kisses, "it
only just came into my head when I was looking at you, how nice you
were, you dear little grandmother, and I thought I'd like to kiss you. I
don't want you to have a gold-headed stick, but I do want one thing,
and then you would be quite perfect. Oh, grandmother dear," she went
on, clasping her hands in entreaty, "just tell me this, do you ever tell
stories?"
Grandmother shook her head solemnly. "I hope not, my dear child," she

said, but Molly detected the fun through the solemnity. She gave a
wriggle.
"Now you're laughing at me," she said. "You know I don't mean that
kind. I mean do you ever tell real stories--not real, I don't mean, for
very often the nicest aren't real, about fairies, you know--but you know
the sort of stories I mean. You would look so beautiful telling stories,
wouldn't she now, Sylvia?"
"And the stories would be beautiful if I told them--eh, Molly?"
"Yes, I am sure they would be. Will you think of some?"
"We'll see," said grandmother. "Anyway there's no time for stories at
present. You have ever so much to think of with all the travelling that is
before you. Wait till we get to Châlet, and then we'll see."
"I like your 'we'll see,'" said Molly. "Some people's 'we'll see,' just
means, 'I can't be troubled,' or, 'don't bother.' But I think your 'we'll see'
sounds nice, grandmother dear."
"I am glad you think so, grand-daughter dear; and now, what about
going to bed? It is only seven, but if you are tired?"
"But we are not a bit tired," said Molly.
"We never go to bed till half-past eight, and Ralph at nine," said Sylvia.
The word "bed" had started a new flow of ideas in Molly's brain.
"Grandmother," she said, growing all at once very grave, "that reminds
me of one thing I wanted to ask you; do the tops of the beds ever come
down now in Paris?"
"'Do the tops of the beds in Paris ever come down?'" repeated
grandmother. "My dear child, what do you mean?"
"It was a story she heard," began Sylvia, in explanation.

"About somebody being suffocated in Paris by the top of the bed
coming down," continued Ralph.
"It was robbers that wanted to steal his money," added Molly.
Grandmother began to look less mystified. "Oh, that old story!" she
said. "But how did you hear it? I remember it when I was a little girl; it
really happened to a friend of my grandfather's, and afterwards I came
across it in a little book about dogs. 'Fidelity of dogs,' was the name of
it, I think. The dog saved the traveller's life by dragging him out of the
bed."
"Yes," said aunty, "I remember that book too. It was among your old
child's books, mother. A queer little musty brown volume, and I
remember how the story frightened me."
"There now!" said Molly triumphantly. "You see it frightened aunty too.
So I'm not such a baby after all."
"Yes, you are," said Ralph. "People might be frightened without
making such a fuss. Molly declared she would rather not go to Paris at
all. That's what I call being babyish--it isn't the feeling frightened that's
babyish--for people might feel frightened and still be brave, mightn't
they, grandmother?"
"Certainly, my boy. That is what moral courage means."
"Oh!" said Molly, as if a new idea had dawned upon her. "I see. Then it
doesn't matter if I am frightened if I don't tell any one."
"Not exactly that," said grandmother. "I would like you all to be strong
and sensible, and to have good nerves, which it would take a good deal
to startle, as well as to have what certainly is best of all, plenty of moral
courage."
"And if Molly is frightened, she certainly couldn't help telling," said
Sylvia, laughing. "She does so pinch whoever is next her."

"There was nothing about a dog in the story of the bed we heard," said
Molly. "It was in a book that a boy at school lent Ralph. I wouldn't ever
be frightened if I had Fusser, I don't think. I do so wish I had asked
papa to let him come with us--just in case, you know, of the beds
having anything funny about them: it would be so comfortable to have
Fusser."
At this they all laughed, and aunty promised that if Molly felt
dissatisfied with the appearance of her bed, she would exchange