NOTICED one afternoon that grandmother had been crying. Her feet seemed
to drag as she moved about the house, and I got up from the table where I
was studying and went to her, asking if she did n't feel well, and if I
could n't help her with her work.

"No, thank you, Jim. I'm troubled, but I guess I'm well enough. Getting a
little rusty in the bones, maybe," she added bitterly.

I stood hesitating. "What are you fretting about, grandmother? Has
grandfather lost any money?"

"No, it ain't money. I wish it was. But I've heard things. You must 'a'
known it would come back to me sometime." She dropped into a chair, and
covering her face with her apron, began to cry. "Jim," she said, "I was
never one that claimed old folks could bring up their grandchildren. But
it came about so; there was n't any other way for you, it seemed like."

I put my arms around her. I could n't bear to see her cry.

"What is it, grandmother? Is it the Firemen's dances?"

She nodded.

"I'm sorry I sneaked off like that. But there's nothing wrong about the
dances, and I have n't done anything wrong. I like all those country
girls, and I like to dance with them. That's all there is to it."

"But it ain't right to deceive us, son, and it brings blame on us. People
say you are growing up to be a bad boy, and that ain't just to us."

"I don't care what they say about me, but if it hurts you, that settles
it. I won't go to the Firemen's Hall again."

I kept my promise, of course, but I found the spring months dull enough. I
sat at home with the old people in the evenings now, reading Latin that
was not in our High-School course. I had made up my mind to do a lot of
college requirement work in the summer, and to enter the freshman class at
the University without conditions in the fall. I wanted to get away as
soon as possible.

Disapprobation hurt me, I found,--even that of people whom I did not
admire. As the spring came on, I grew more and more lonely, and fell back
on the telegrapher and the cigar-maker and his canaries for companionship.
I remember I took a melancholy pleasure in hanging a May-basket for Nina
Harling that spring. I bought the flowers from an old German woman who
always had more window plants than any one else, and spent an afternoon
trimming a little work-basket. When dusk came on, and the new moon hung in
the sky, I went quietly to the Harlings' front door with my offering, rang
the bell, and then ran away as was the custo